Bellatoxica
by HB's Favourite
Summary: Sequel to "Hidden Depths". As Heckitty Broomhead prepares to retire from The Witches Guild, she has unfinished business with Constance...
1. Chapter 1

Hi all! It's been a long time but I currently have copious amounts of time in which to write WW Fanfiction, and I intend to make the most of it...

I will be updating the stories which I left hanging in the air all those months ago, but this came to mind and just had to be written. There's also a new oneshot in the offing, which I will publish as soon as I have honed it one last time.

xxx

This one's dedicated to Nattherat, who sent me a lovely picture some time ago and whom I promised a fic. So here it is! There will be updates in due course.

_A/N – I have made references to certain ideas from Harry Potter here (i.e. owls delivering the post), but this is __not__ a WW/HP crossover. _

_As much as I dislike OCs, I have had to introduce my own here, but she is very relevant to the story and none of the existing characters would have been suitable for the role. When I think of Mistress Eva DeSilva, I have in mind the beautiful and gothic Eva Green. Google her if you don't know who she is – those of you who have seen _Casino Royale, The Golden Compass_ and _Cracks_ will know her. And for those of you who enjoy all things femslash, I can recommend Cracks. _

Beware – there's a nasty shock in store later on...

**Bellatoxica**

1

Autumn was looming, and Miss Cackle's Academy for Witches was bathed in a golden glow that brought with it crisp, clean air and leaves scattering like antique paper on the ground.

If you happened to be hovering over the castle on your broomstick during this particular Saturday morning, you'd have seen the girls dressed in their weekend gear, some playing skipping games with ropes suspended between broomsticks, whilst others chased each other round the yard, stuffing handfuls of dried leaves down their friends' jumpers to raucous laughter mingled with squeals of indignation.

If you looked a little further, to the far west turret of the building, you'd see Miss Constance Hardbroom peering over the parapet above her private study, her long dark ponytail caught in the breeze and an irritated expression on her face as she prepared to descend the steps and serve a generous helping of detention.

Uniform or no uniform, Saturday was, like any other day, one for standards.

xxx

Imogen Drill had to admit that she'd grown to rather enjoy weekends at the Academy. Recently, there had been a trend whereby the staff gathered around the staffroom table in the mornings, whilst Imogen perused a tabloid, Davina knitted yet another cardigan for yet another great-niece, and Amelia attempted to complete this week's edition of _The Sorceress's_ Creepy Cryptic Crossword. Copious amounts of tea and coffee were consumed, and a quick trip down to Cosie's Cafe to pick up cakes for elevenses had become something of a habit.

Last week's rota dictated that it was Imogen's turn, and there had been much disappointment when she returned with a packet of rice cakes and three bottles of still mineral water.

'What on _earth_ are these?' Davina had asked, disappointment diluting her smile as she took a rice cake and broke it in two, watching its powdery dust settle on her knitting wool. 'It looks like something you'd stuff a cardboard box with!'

'Don't complain till you've tried it,' Imogen smiled defiantly, settling herself in her usual chair and shaking open her newspaper before spreading it across her side of the table. 'I had to ask Mrs Cosie to get these in as a special favour,' she'd raised her voice in Amelia's direction as the headmistress added milk to all of their teas. 'There's far too much cheesecake around here and it does your heart no good whatsoever.'

Davina had seemed unconvinced as she took a wincing bite of one half of the rice cake, her eyes trailing to Amelia who had been dunking hers suspiciously into her tea.

Seeing as Imogen's attempts at promoting healthy eating to the staff had clearly gone down like a brick in a pond, on this particular Saturday morning, Davina had jumped at the opportunity to make the trip to Cosie's herself and returned with three iced Chelsea buns complete with glace cherries. She then proceeded to slice them carefully in half across the middle and ladle on heaped tablespoons of fresh whipped double cream, followed by a dollop of jam before balancing their top halves delicately on the mounds, tilting her head to admire her handy work.

'Oho, yes!' Amelia beamed as she breezed in, rubbing her hands with glee. Imogen was sure her eyes were watering as if it they were the most beautiful examples of patisserie expertise she had ever seen. 'This is what Saturdays are all about!'

'I get the point,' Imogen huffed, taking a savage bite from the rice cake she had saved from last week.

The hours passed and the sun poured in through the dusty window, Imogen periodically moistening her page-turning finger. Davina and Amelia had been chatting about something that was keeping them both very amused, but Imogen had tuned out, relishing the peaceful Saturday morning and very much looking forward to a run at dusk. She thought fleetingly of how different the atmosphere would be if Constance were with them. Tending to avoid social gatherings which might encourage informal conversation, Constance was rarely to be seen in the staffroom on Saturday mornings unless it was to check her post tray. Probably for the best, Imogen considered, scanning the horoscope column. She found Constance's presence very distracting these days, particularly since the potions mistress had rescued her from the clutches of a violent boyfriend. She could not fail to be in awe of the woman's strength and incorruptibility – although the latter had unfortunately meant that Constance had distanced herself from Imogen since the events had unfolded last term. Having previously suggested the two of them get to understand each other a little better over dinner, months had passed and Constance had made no further reference to the possibility. In the meantime Imogen had made a conscious effort not to make a nuisance of herself, and had remained tight lipped in the hope that Constance would make the next move.

'Very sad unfinished story about rising smoke,' Amelia broke into Imogen's thoughts, scratching her chin absentmindedly with her pen.

'Sorry?'

'Eighteen down,' replied Amelia, as if snapping out of deep thought. 'It's the only one I'm stuck on. Blank, R, blank blank blank, C blank L.'

Imogen looked horrified. 'How on _earth_ do people do cryptic crosswords? I barely manage the simple one!'

'Tragical,' said Davina, nonchalantly, still knitting. Imogen regarded her with confusion.

'Yes...'

'No – I mean the answer. It's TRAGICAL. "_Very sad"_ is the definition, "_unfinished story"_ gives the "_tal", _or_ "tale"_ with one letter missing, making it unfinished. "_Rising smoke"_ indicates that "_cigar"_ should be written backwards up the page, and "_about"_ means that the letters of "_tal"_ should be put either side of "_ragic"_, resulting in your answer. Tragical. Simple parts of speech, dear,' she dropped her knitting into her lap and cast a worried glance about the room. 'Although I do hope it's not ominous.'

Her last comment seemingly unheard, Imogen and Amelia exchanged glances of sheer disbelief. As Amelia opened her mouth to ask where they taught people as scatty as Davina literary logic, the door flew open, causing them all to start and Constance swept in, heading straight for her post tray.

'I assume the owls have been today,' she asked, wearily, already stooping to rummage through a small pile of letters sealed with molten red wax.

'Yes, Constance, yes,' mumbled Amelia, mopping up a dollop of cream that had escaped her bun to the tabletop. 'I'll deal with mine on Monday, thank you,' here she rolled her eyes at Imogen and said aside 'This is the time of year for appeals against last term's exam results. There's always _one_ who scored a high "A" and wonders why they missed out on an "A*".'

Although Imogen had been meaning to ask how the examinations' appeal system worked at the academy, her eyes pursued Constance who moved slowly towards the window, her attention solely on the piece of parchment she was reading. Even though Constance had turned so that Imogen could not see her face, the gym mistress sensed all was not well. There was a chill in the air, the same inexplicable chill that seemed to emanate from Constance whenever things were not quite right. Her shoulders had stiffened, her head bowed to read. Imogen bit her lip apprehensively, aware that the other two staff members were oblivious.

'Is everything all right Constance?' she faltered.

The chatter between Amelia and Davina died down immediately as Constance regained her usual composure, turning to the Headmistress and placing the parchment on the table in front of her.

'This ought not to wait until Monday, Miss Cackle,' she said, the slight waver in her voice betraying her calm exterior.

Amelia squinted at the parchment as she fumbled in her cardigan pocket for her glasses, holding them in front of her eyes with their arms still folded. Davina angled her head so as to read the letter upside down.

'Dear Miss Hardbroom, blah blah blah,' Amelia muttered the letter aloud, as if scanning chunks of text in search of the main point. 'It has therefore been deemed necessary for – oh,' She let the hand holding the letter drop into her lap, closing her eyes as anxious realisation flickered across her face. 'Oh, _no_...'

'What?' asked Imogen, urgently.

Amelia said after a heavy sigh, 'It's Broomhead. She's coming back.'

Imogen's mouth dropped open and she stared aghast at Amelia, awaiting further explanation and not daring to look at Constance. 'What the hell for?' her voice was shrill as she glanced between the Headmistress and Davina.

'She has a new Inspector she wishes to introduce to the Academy before her retirement next year.'

'Retirement? Well, that's good, isn't it?' Imogen looked from one colleague to the next, annoyed that they didn't seem to share her glimmer of hope. 'All we have to do is survive this visit, and she'll have handed over to someone else and be out of our hair.'

Another silence dawdled, and Imogen felt Constance's penetrating stare beaming into her like a laser. She looked cautiously up to see her colleague suppressing a dangerous rage. As a wave of sheepish fear swept through Imogen's abdomen, she swallowed hard.

'Out of our hair?' Constance hissed through clenched teeth. 'It is not _your _hair that she has become eternally entangled in, Miss Drill. And no mere retirement will rid her from mine!'

'Constance – I'm sorry, I didn't mean to –' But even before Imogen had started to mumble the clumsy apology, Constance had swept towards the door and out of the room, slamming it forcefully behind her. Imogen let out a tense breath and looked pleadingly to Amelia, who had slunk back in her seat and was studying the ceiling.

'I've got to go and find her,' Imogen got up, her chair grinding noisily across the stone floor.

As the gym mistress disappeared in pursuit of Constance, Amelia turned her attention wearily to Davina, who has now knitting as though her sanity depended on it.

'Davina, dear, there's something wrong with that jumper.'

Miss Bat hesitated, irritably. 'Sorry – what?'

'You've started a third arm.'

xxx

Imogen's eyes darted about the corridor as she stepped from the staffroom, spotting Constance's silhouette disappearing around a dark corner. Hastening after her, Imogen heard her colleague's voice ring around the corridors. 'Out!' she snapped, 'OUT!'

As Imogen rounded the same corner she saw two fourth years stumbling into the corridor from the girls' toilets as though they had been hoisted out with some force. They both gazed wide-eyed at Imogen as she neared.

'Run along girls,' she ordered, waiting whilst the girls drifted confusedly back in the direction of their dormitories.

Imogen placed her fingertips on the door and listened before pushing it open, afraid of what she might see. As she peered around the cold stone wall, Constance immediately doubled up over one of the basins and retched violently. Imogen averted her eyes and backed into the narrow entrance, knowing the sense of indecency Constance would feel if she knew someone had seen her. The potions mistress then straightened up, took a deep breath and turned the tap on so that a jet of water blasted into the basin, despite there being nothing to clear. _She doesn't even _eat_ enough to vomit_, Imogen thought.

'It must surprise you to see me like this, Miss Drill,' Constance's words had an air of sarcastic self-deprecation. 'You'd think the passage of time would have a healing effect, would you not? Perhaps for some it does. We can only hope, for their sakes.'

'I'm sorry,' Imogen said stiffly, feeling foolish as she emerged into Constance's full view. 'I didn't mean to trivialise the situation.' She watched Constance in the large mirror suspended from a heavy link chain above the sinks. 'If there is anything I can do to help... I mean, I know I don't have any power over Broomhead but if you needed somebody to talk to, or – well, anything.'

Constance was not easily intimidated, but in the case of Heckitty Broomhead, her colleagues had discovered her Achilles heel. What had the woman done to have such an effect on an otherwise forthright, unwavering woman that she had still not managed to put behind her some fifteen years later? Imogen's fist clenched involuntarily against the wall behind her, and she felt instantly stupid when she realised what she was doing. A powerful witch like Constance didn't need _her_ protection – Imogen was a mere mortal, far less academically intellectual and _completely_ uneducated in the field of magic. She'd have probably have been insulted by Imogen's offer of support. Besides, what was Broomhead planning to do, anyway? Turn up and throw a few taunts in Constance's direction before finally relieving countless people of her foul company forever, probably. The potions mistress could handle that.

Constance exhaled, as though she had been holding her breath for several seconds. Brushing herself down briskly, she turned and made purposefully for the door, passing so closely to Imogen that the gym mistress had to take a step back and collided clumsily with the wall.

'I will be indisposed for the rest of the morning,' muttered Constance as she disappeared towards the spiral staircase leading to the teachers' quarters.

xxx

Inevitably, Medusa Scales and Salome Platter had ignored Miss Drill's instructions and stayed to eavesdrop at the bathroom door. What with the school being the intimate community that it was, scurrilous rumours soon spread like wildfire that the pair had been manhandled out of the girls' toilets by HB, where the teacher could be heard throwing up.

The theories followed in their dozen. Enid Nightshade suggested that a group of parents had combined forces and complained about Miss Hardbroom, which was no more than she deserved for the misery she caused them on a daily basis. Maud Moonshine had heard Miss Hardbroom was pregnant; but that was an unlikely story, according to Fenella Feverfew – after all what man in their right mind would go anywhere near a frigid old spinster like HB?

In order to quell the stories, Miss Cackle made an announcement the following Monday in the weekly bulletin that there was to be another visit from the fearsome Mistress Heckitty Broomhead.

'So that explains it then!' Fenella brandished the yellow parchment in Griselda Blackwood's face at breakfast. 'This'll be sure to put the frights up HB!'

Griselda rested her spoon on the side of her breakfast bowl and reached for the parchment. As her eyes grazed the text she raised an eyebrow, nodding knowingly.

'Sure will,' she said thickly, through a mouthful of porridge. 'Gutted, HB! OW!' Griselda almost choked as the parchment was suddenly whipped from her grasp. The table of fifth years around her stared aghast as the parchment floated momentarily in midair before Miss Hardbroom materialised, towering above them with the bulletin clutched in her hand.

'_Gutted_ indeed, Griselda Blackwood,' She mocked, icily. 'May I suggest you assist the kitchen staff with their clear up operation after breakfast, and I expect to see my reflection in every bowl, plate and spoon by the time you are finished – or you will be similarly _gutted_.' Sniggers hissed around the table at their teacher's scathing use of a colloquial term. 'That goes for you too, Fenella Feverfew. And while I'm here, are any of the rest of you angling to suffer a similar fate?'

There was silence and poker faces all round as Miss Hardbroom's scrutinising glare studied each girl individually.

'No, Miss Hardbroom,' they chorused. Their potions mistress sniffed, flexed her spell casting fingers in a way which suggested she had successfully resisted an urge to send them all to the nearest pond, and vanished. Fenella huffed and rested her chin on the heels of her hands, noticing that Griselda was sucking furiously on the side of her thumb.

'What's up with _you_?' she asked, sulkily. Griselda pulled her wet thumb from her lips, inspecting it closely.

'She gave me a bloody paper cut!'

xxx

'It was better to tell them,' Amelia justified, although her tone betrayed a certain doubt that she had done the right thing. She circled her desk, using a hand to steady herself on her way around it. 'There's no way Broomhead would agree to be kept out of sight of the girls. She takes obvious delight in wreaking havoc and fear wherever she goes and I doubt she will make an exception just because retirement looms.'

Imogen had perched on the back of the chair opposite the Headmistress's desk, her teeth grinding on a fingernail.

'I still don't see why Broomhead has to come at all. It's not as if this place is so vast that a newcomer couldn't work out what to do if they came on their own. We didn't even _have_ inspections before her first visit, did we?'

'Very rarely,' Amelia contemplated, blowing the dust from her central register in anticipation that it would be required at the forthcoming visit. 'And on the rare occasions that we did, they were nowhere near as in depth as Broomhead's. The Guild used to go on the basis that if there were no complaints, there was no need for intervention. People soon pipe up when they aren't happy with a school's performance, Imogen.' She put her glasses on and sighed, reclining slightly in her seat. 'Well – that was then. Things are very different now. Blame, compensation, health and safety... Let's just hope it's not a case of "better the devil we know".'

Imogen's stomach plummeted. Surely this new inspector couldn't be as bad as Broomhead? There was the advantage that she _wasn't_ Broomhead, therefore would not have the same effect on Constance and perhaps the potions mistress would soon be exercising some of her legendary authority – but what if the newcomer was something more sinister altogether?

'You know,' Miss Cackle mused, 'You two do seem to be getting on an awful lot better lately, since –' she trailed off, seemingly unsure whether mentioning Serge's name would seem insensitive. 'Well, since your – breakdown with – that chap you were involved with. You both seem more at peace in each other's company. Constance is making more exceptions for you.'

Imogen was intrigued. 'What do you mean – exceptions?'

'She's allowing more room for your opinions. Don't get me wrong – she's still our same old Constance, staunch traditionalist and all. And the girls are no less petrified of her. But she changes when you're around. You must have a calming influence, Miss Drill.'

Imogen swallowed. It was true – despite Constance's aloofness, she had to admit that things had been a little less fractious since Constance had saved her from Serge's tirade of domestic abuse. But she couldn't help but feel a certain degree of resentment about the fact that Constance kept her cards so determinedly close to her chest. She had, after all, helped Imogen out of a potentially deadly situation. Why could the potions mistress not confide her own fears to her?

'Is there something wrong, dear?' Amelia took a Garibaldi from a newly opened packet, gesturing to Imogen to take one.

'No – no thanks, Miss Cackle. I ought to tidy the store – make sure there are no basketballs out of place before Broomhead gatecrashes the party.'


	2. Chapter 2

2

It wasn't every night that Mildred's class were asked to gather in the entrance hall at almost midnight. Then again, it wasn't every night that they were tasked with the concoction of a recently-discovered sleep-enhancement potion, credited with improving students' memory tenfold if used three months prior to their exams.

'We are just in the experimental stages at the moment, girls,' Miss Hardbroom informed them as they stood shivering slightly in their cloaks and hats, broomsticks clutched at their sides. 'I suggest once we have gathered in the yard, we take a short flight down the mountainside to the south bank of the lake, nearest the village. The moonlight is a little better there.'

'Ironic, isn't it?' muttered Enid to Mildred and Maud as they trudged across the yard towards Walker's Gate. 'To make a sleep-enhancement potion you have to get out of your bed in the middle of the night to find the ingredients.'

Mildred giggled.

'I don't understand why she's having anything to do with this potion anyway,' Maud yawned. 'Surely it would be more like HB to make us all stress and strain to improve our concentration, rather than rely on magic?'

Enid snorted. 'She's probably taking advantage of a late-night jaunt because she can't sleep. Broomhead's pitching up tomorrow, remember? If HB's suffering, she probably thinks we should be too.'

Miss Hardbroom glanced back and eyed the three of them pointedly.

'Keep up, girls,' she sneered, glaring at each of them in turn. She then stopped abruptly and turned on her heel, causing the girls nearest the front to almost collide with her. 'Now, mount your brooms and follow me.'

Mildred took off a little shakily, the way she always had and, she had resolved, probably always would. She thought fondly of her mother who always managed to bunny-hop the family Lada whenever she started it. To Mildred, flying as smoothly as Ethel Hallow did would feel as out of the ordinary as managing a shopping trip with her parents where the car's registration number wasn't hollered out over a supermarket tannoy, accused of parking over two bays, or obstructing a delivery entrance, or inadvertently pinching an ambulance space. Mildred smiled to herself, keeping up the rear of the small cluster of witches soaring above the blackened treetops.

She glanced down and her balance wavered slightly. Trying to make out which of the figures in front was Miss Hardbroom, and noticing that the potions mistress was a good few yards in front of the rest of the class, Mildred clutched the handle of her broom until her knuckles whitened, and picked up speed, enjoying the fresh night air against her cheeks.

Drifting over the lake, the rippling shimmer of the moonlight casting a silver-white glow on its surface, Mildred was filled for the first time with a blissful warmth at the thought of how lucky she was to be a witch. Out of her depth, perhaps; but lucky, no doubt. Her mind wandered back to the days before she had known she had won the scholarship to Cackle's, when her name had been down to attend Chiltern Edge School on the edge of her home village in Oxfordshire, a secondary state school like any other. She had to admit there had been times – especially when she had been at the mercy of HB – when she had wished she could turn back the clock and have some semblance of normality in her life, just like all the non-magical girls her age. Times like these, however, made it all worthwhile.

'Mildred,'

The young witch snapped out of her musings at the sound of the familiar voice, and she squinted into the darkness, trying to locate her form mistress in the distance.

'MILDRED!'

With a feeling of embarrassed realisation in her stomach, Mildred glanced down to see Miss Hardbroom and her classmates now standing on dry land at the edge of the lake, all staring expectantly up at her.

'You seem to have forgotten to land,' Miss Hardbroom sighed. 'We'll wait for you to join us, shall we?' the question was laden with sarcasm and Mildred heard a murmur of laughter fritter among the girls.

'Sorry, Miss Hardbroom,'

Grimacing at her own stupidity, Mildred steered her broom to begin its steep descent, all the more put off by the twelve pairs of eyes that were on her. Fortunately, her landing was a little more graceful than usual. As her feet touched the ground she immediately dismounted, seeing Miss Hardbroom's eyes glinting savagely at her in the darkness.

'Thank you, Mildred. I do hope your little detour hasn't cost us valuable time.'

'She means it might be past midnight,' Maud whispered, noticing her friend's confused expression as Miss Hardbroom proceeded to address the rest of the class. 'We need to gather the lake water at midnight precisely – hence why it's called "lake water measured at midnight".'

'Now girls, you each have in your satchel a small phial in which to extract the water until it is two thirds full – that is about half a fluid ounce. This must be done at midnight precisely. The time currently is...' Miss Hardbroom paused to reach into her cloak and, retrieving a small, gold pocket watch. 'Eleven fifty-eight. Lucky, Mildred. Will you all please make your way to the water's edge – _being_ _careful not to fall in_ – and when I give the word, collect the water as instructed.'

The girls traipsed to the bank of the lake, crouching down with phials at the ready. Mildred glanced along the row of classmates and saw that Ethel had hers poised with all the determination of someone who was about to start an Olympic race.

'Geek,' hissed Mildred in Enid's ear. 'Everything's a competition with her. Hope she falls in!'

Enid glanced back to Miss Hardbroom, who was concentrating on the pocket watch.

'It can be arranged...' Enid smirked mischievously as Miss Hardbroom began her countdown from three...

'...two, one...'

'Aqueous descendus!' Enid whispered and flicked her wrist in Ethel's direction.

'_Now_!'

Miss Hardbroom gave the word and as Ethel toppled forwards into the water, the rest of the class just managed to gather their water before they realised what was happening. Suddenly there was pandemonium. Ethel splashed violently for a moment before emerging in the shallow water, gasping with a mixture of cold and outrage. Drusilla was wailing 'Some monster's eating Ethel!' over and over again, and the rest of the class had erupted in raucous laughter. Miss Hardbroom rushed to the water's edge, seizing Ethel irritably by the wrist and yanking her out with force. Mildred, Maud and Enid stifled laughs as the young witch's entire body shivered, the folds of her cloak sticking relentlessly to her whilst Miss Hardbroom attempted to unpeel it, wrapping her own cloak somewhat unsympathetically around Ethel's shoulders and urging her to 'Keep still, girl!'

'My father'll hear about this, Hubble Bubble!' Ethel shrieked wildly, spluttering lake water as she spoke. 'You'll be on the first train to some down-and-out special measures comprehensive in Bermondsey before you know it! It _must _have beenher, Miss Hardbroom!' she pleaded vehemently with the potions mistress, 'I'm not such a clumsy klutz that I would just fall off the bank like that!'

'Yes yes, Ethel, all right. We'll get to the bottom of this in the morning,' here she shot a meaningful glance at Mildred. 'Did you manage to get your water?'

Ethel peered down at her empty phial, her eyes filling with tears.

'No, Miss,' she sobbed. From the corner of her eye, Mildred saw Enid exaggeratedly moving a hand in front of her mouth in a theatrical yawn.

Miss Hardbroom rolled her eyes. 'Then you'll just have to share with Drusilla. Now – if we can manage to restore some of the order expected from privileged young witches, I suggest we make our way back to the school. The water must be used within the hour for it to form a useable potion.'

xxx

Mildred sincerely hoped that Enid would eventually admit that it was her who had cast the spell to make Ethel fall into the water. It wouldn't be the first time she'd had no choice but to take the blame for one of her friend's antics. She wouldn't have minded: it was a clever trick that had kept the entire class, except the victim, amused. But Mildred, despite her reputation as the worst witch in the school, was far too well behaved and afraid of getting into trouble ever to even _dare_ attempt something like that under the omnipotent gaze of Miss Hardbroom. And besides, the burden of guilt would have gnawed away at her until she'd been forced to confess. Enid, on the other hand, had about her an ease of conscience that allowed her to break all manner of rules and then sweetly decline responsibility without a sorry backward glance. It wasn't that she ever _blamed_ Mildred; but she seemed happy enough to let her _take_ the blame, as though Mildred should somehow be accustomed to getting into trouble and therefore immune to the indignity of it.

'You did _suggest_ it,' Enid coaxed, noticing her friend's frown as they traipsed along the dimly lit corridor towards the potions lab. Mildred said nothing and sidled into her usual place at the back of the class.

'Now girls, you have the rest of the ingredients in front of you,' here Miss Hardbroom gave a swift wave of her spell casting fingers and a neat arrangement of ingredients appeared in front of them, acknowledged by an impressed gasp from the girls. 'And you should follow the instructions set out on the parchment that Bryony handed out you before we set off. Now, before we begin, can anybody tell me what else lake water measured at midnight can be used to make?'

Maud raised her hand, timidly.

'Bellatoxica, Miss,' she said, cautiously, as if afraid of getting the answer wrong even though she never did.

'Very good, Maud,' Miss Hardbroom inclined her head in approval, an almost pleased smile curling a corner of her lips. 'And whilst we won't be discussing that particular potion this evening, you are reaching a stage in your education where I trust you to be mature enough to understand it.' The potions mistress surveyed her silent girls for a moment, and Mildred felt a strange flutter in her stomach. There was something so intense about Miss Hardbroom when she verged on discussing the darker elements of witchcraft. Anything that veered slightly from the usual laughter and invisibility potions seemed to reveal just that little bit more about their enigmatic potions mistress, little bits of information that Mildred was sure only the most privileged had access to... 

'So,' Mildred jumped, brought back to earth as Miss Hardbroom returned their attention to the task in hand. 'Three minutes should be more than adequate. Off you go.'

It seemed strange working in the potions lab after dark. Of course, some of their winter lessons took place in the early evening, especially when limited light was required to see the effects of certain potions – but thirty minutes after midnight had a completely different feel to it. There was little sound apart from that of prongs and spatulas tapping against the side of cauldrons as ingredients were measured, and the slow, rhythmic tap of Miss Hardbroom's heels as she stalked up and down each row, peering wordlessly into cauldrons and unnerving the girls. Mildred focussed on her work as she felt her form mistress approach, but had to meet her gaze when she realised she had stopped, arms folded, looking expectantly between her and Enid.

'I will see the pair of you in here tomorrow evening at five thirty.' She hissed, eyeing them both dangerously. Mildred's shoulders drooped in resignation as she ignored an apologetic glance from Enid.

'Don't worry,' Enid whispered to her friend. 'She'll be too preoccupied with Broomhead by then. Putty in our hands.'

'That'd be a first,' Mildred sighed, watching miserably whilst the potions mistress returned to her own desk at the front of the room.

xxx

Amelia put her hand to the cool brass door handle of the staffroom. She gritted her teeth, eyeing the heavens in a silent plea for strength. Imparting news of any kind to her staff was always much more of battle than it should be, and this was going to be no exception. Her three subordinates had such conflicting personalities that almost nothing that affected them all was ever received graciously and without argument. What satisfied one invariably riled another, to the extent that Amelia had become adept at predicting who was going to react, and how. On the rare occasion that something pleased Constance, it made a situation considerably easier to deal with – not of course that the headmistress thought Davina and Imogen to be soft touches, or easily persuaded to see an alternative viewpoint; but they were wholly more reasonable than her deputy, who, she considered, had probably been set in her ways the moment she'd entered the world.

Unfortunately, this particular turn of events was not likely to appeal to Constance in the slightest, and things, as she had heard the pupils say when they didn't realise she had tuned into their colloquial banter, were very likely to "kick off".

'Morning ladies,' she smiled broadly as she breezed into the room, to see Davina and Imogen in their usual seats and Constance bent over some paperwork at her desk. 'Ah, glad you're all here. I've been meaning to speak to you. You see, there's been somewhat of a mix-up concerning Mistress Broomhead's stay at the guest house in the village,' she smiled nervously in an attempt to make light of the situation.

'What sort of a mix up?' Imogen nonchalantly turned a page of her _Hiking Heights_ magazine, clutching a steaming mug of coffee. Amelia sat down at the head of the table and glanced towards Constance, who continued marking essays.

'I – er –well, you will remember that on Chief Wizard Hellibore's last visit, he and Mr Rowan-Webb stayed at the guest house. It seems there was an – _incident_ – in their room... involving the television.' Davina swept the composition she was writing aside and clapped a lace-clad hand over her mouth, as if to anticipate some awful revelation.

'You will remember, also, that Mr Rowan-Webb spent many a year in the pond outside the school,' continued Amelia, by way of pre-emptive apology. 'Even Egbert would have known what a television was for, but he was otherwise engaged in the bathroom when the event took place...'

'Go _on_ Amelia, _please!_' urged Imogen, barely suppressing her glee – she always had loved the stories about magical people getting into scrapes with a non-magical appliances.

Amelia shook her bob of grey hair back from her face. 'Well, somehow Mr Rowan-Webb managed to work out how to switch the television on. He then happened across an episode of some non-magical drama – I think something called _CSI Miami _was mentioned? – where a young woman had been bound with rope and was screaming for help. The poor chap was absolutely horrified, and not realising that she wasn't actually trapped inside he... punched the screen... thinking he was breaking the glass into some other realm, with every intention of helping the girl out of her plight.'

'Oh. My. _God_.' Imogen covered her face with her palms and peeked through her fingers, her eyes full of astonishment.

'It gets worse...' continued Amelia, barely able to keep a straight face herself and sure that she had detected a brief shudder of amusement from Constance's shoulders.

'On hearing the commotion, not only did the housekeeper come bundling into the room, but Egbert emerged from the bathroom, complete with trousers and what-not around his ankles and not a great deal to be left to the imagination!'

'Ugh!' Imogen exclaimed loudly, throwing herself back in her seat and clapping her hands over her ears in exaggerated disgust. Davina gave way to tears of laughter and Constance had turned in her seat and, looking mortified as she contemplated the indecency.

'And of course,' Amelia continued, 'It wasn't as if Egbert was even wearing robes. They could hardly have turned up to a non-magical guest house fully kitted out in star-encrusted robes and hat. If they had, perhaps Egbert's shame would have remained hidden. But the fact of the matter is, some non-magical establishments don't take kindly to what they see as the ignorance of our kind. That sort of – albeit _unintentional_ – vandalism cost the guest house a lot of money. As soon as they heard the name 'Broomhead' they assumed a magical connection and made their excuses. So...'

'So where will they be staying?' Davina asked, lifting her glasses to dab at her eyes with a tissue.

'That's what I was getting to...' Amelia felt her own smile fade and observed the faces of her three colleagues, watching as the colour drained from all of them.

'Not here,' Imogen's voice was grave.

'I'm afraid so, yes,'

'But there's no room!' Constance finally piped up, horror-struck. 'There are only our four chambers, the girls' rooms won't be up to Broomhead's standards and that just leaves the dungeons - and I dread to _think _how long the cobwebs will take to clear from there!'

Amelia fixed her gaze on her fingernails, drumming them on the table in front of her.

'The thing is, ladies,' she began, as though hoping one of them would catch her meaning before she actually had to break it to them. 'It's only for a couple of nights...'

'No,' Constance rose to her feet.

'Constance –'

'I am _not_ giving up my room,' she continued, defiantly. 'I do not want _her_ meddling with my belongings and the woman is most certainly not welcome in my personal space.'

'No, Constance, of course not,' Amelia raised a hand as if it might restore calm. 'Sit down, will you?' After a moment's hesitation, Constance resumed her seat, with obvious reluctance. 'Davina, you'll be in with me. Imogen, you will share with Constance.'

'Cosy,' Imogen muttered to herself, suppressing a smile.

'Miss Cackle, I hardly think it appropriate that Imogen and I –'

'_That way_,' Amelia continued, forcefully, 'Mistress Broomhead can have your room, Imogen, and her companion can have Davina's. I've thought about it and I think the room of a non-magical individual will be of far less interest to her than one of our rooms. Nevertheless,' here, she blinked over her spectacles towards Imogen and Davina, 'I suggest you remove anything you don't want either of them to meddle with. Those cigars you brought back from Mongolia, for instance, Davina. We don't want to give them a chance to accuse us of encouraging smoking amongst the girls.'

'But Headmistress!'

'That is my final word, Constance. We all have to compromise. And as I said it is only for two nights, after all.'

Constance and Imogen regarded each other, the potions mistress with a look of utter indignation, whilst Imogen raised her eyebrows, feigning the most innocent of smiles.

xxx

Some sixty miles away, in the dank underground basement of the Witches' Guild, south-east London, a solitary figure was sitting at an old oak table, ice clicking against the sides of a small glass of cognac as she raised it to her lips. On the table in front of her was a photograph, bent and dog-eared from much handling. The figure placed the glass gently onto the table, picking up the photograph so that the shaft of light from the candle behind her was cast upon it. A class of witches looked back at her, clad in formal attire with brooms at their sides: three receding rows of smiling faces. The photograph had about it a texture of datedness, as though it had been taken at least a decade previously. The figure took another sip of the cognac, her eyes narrowed and focussing on one face that stared motionlessly back at her from the picture – the only unsmiling face. The face of a young Constance Hardbroom.

Mistress Broomhead sat back in her seat, her jaw set in brooding determination as she placed the photograph in the inner pocket of her robes.

It was time.

_**AN**_

_**Woo, yeah! Broomhead's back! What's the old bag got up her sleeve for our Constance? Tune in next time...**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**AN**_

_**Watcha. Thanks for coming back.**_

_**Just wanted to say, the reference below to the 'prickly scalp' thing is the reaction I get whenever I see a snake on TV (God help me if I ever see one in real life...)**_

_**You'll see what I mean, anyway. **_

_**Bon appétit. **_

**3**

On the morning of Mistress Broomhead's arrival, Constance woke suddenly, sitting bolt upright in bed and gasping for breath, perspiration fresh on her brow. Her arms flailed wildly around her until she felt the cool, crisp cotton sheets beneath her fingertips, the glow from the lead-paned window reminding her that she was safe in her chamber at Cackle's Academy. Thank goodness Imogen hadn't been here, she thought, as the uncomfortable recollection of Miss Cackle's proposal for the next two nights' sleeping arrangements crept unpalatably into her mind. Lately, her dreams had translated themselves into involuntary spasms of distress, and the thought of exposing her frailties even more to the gym mistress was most unwelcome - almost as much so as the impending visit from her former tutor.

Satisfied that her breathing was as steady as she was likely to get it, Constance fumbled in the top drawer of her bedside cabinet, peering in the soft dawn light for the bottle that was her sanctuary from panic. She had formulated her Anti Anxiety Draught in her early weeks at Witch Training College, as part of a project to create a potion that might be saleable on the magical market. The potion had, ironically, become one of the two of her most indispensible (the other, of course, being her Wide Awake Potion - standard issue for the more industrious witch). Never before her time under Mistress Broomhead's tutelage had Constance experienced such perpetual, heightened anguish, and the sudden change in her usually unrufflable disposition had more than slightly unsettled her. At both her private witch boarding school and Weirdsister College, Constance had been the one who easily and openly expressed her exasperation towards girls who cried easily. 'There's always _one_,' she'd mock, when she was sure she had an audience. 'How do you expect to cope in the workplace? You won't know what's hit you when you can't use your tears as an excuse for ignorance.'

And when the tables had turned and Broomhead entered her life, Constance's own words rang very true in her own mind. Almost overnight, she became a firm believer in retribution. Broomhead, as Constance saw it, was her punishment for her previous lack of empathy.

Feeling the welcome coolness of the caged-glass phial within her palm, Constance's thoughts returned to the here and now and she twisted out the cork stopper, draining the contents of the phial in one, with a slight shudder as the overpowering taste of aniseed burnt her throat. She gasped once more and let herself fall back on to her pillow, loose tendrils of hair spilling over the side of her pillow.

x

Griselda, who had been idly engaged in adding to her rubber band ball, watched as Miss Hardbroom strode in to the fifth year potions lesson that morning, dropping a pile of aged books heavily onto her desk and proceeding to write notes for the lesson on the blackboard. Griselda thought fleetingly how unlike Miss Hardbroom it was not to have everything prepared beforehand, so that the lesson would start at the height of the hour, finish on the stroke of the next, and every second in-between was utilised so that all sixty minutes dragged like a day. Aware of the continuing monologue to her left, however, Griselda diverted her attention back to Fenella, who was regaling the story of how her ironically-named cat Ivory's fur was now fuchsia pink, thanks to a bodged grooming spell. As time ticked on and Miss Hardbroom remained distracted, some of the girls wandered across the classroom to chat to friends, perching on desks and swinging their legs, casually.

Griselda had been in the process of pushing herself out of her own seat when she sank straight back down again, having happened to catch Miss Hardbroom's eye at the very moment the potions mistress turned from the blackboard, brushing the chalk from her hands and folding her arms to survey her pupils with a particularly withering glare. Before the young witch could warn her classmates, Miss Hardbroom's voice was booming around the room.

'SIT!' She barked. Chairs screeched across the floor as the girls hastened into their rightful places. A deafening silence stunned the room, and Miss Hardbroom's eyes roved the sea of faces in front of her for several unnerving seconds.

'I do NOT expect behaviour like that from my fifth years,' she said, pacing menacingly along the front row, her voice dripping with ice. 'You have been taught not only to be witches, but young ladies - and I therefore expect you to behave in a manner becoming of young ladies!'

The petrified silence remained as every pair of eyes stared guiltily at her, the girls bolt upright and perfectly motionless in their seats. Griselda swallowed hard, not daring to even glance at Fenella. A familiar hot sensation of fear that she had felt on her first ever lesson with Miss Hardbroom, when she had literally perspired in panic at the thought of having to face this woman on a daily basis for the next five years, rose from somewhere beneath her collar.

'WELL? Do you have anything to say?'

'Sorry, Miss Hardbroom,' came the chorus, with more regimented precision than usual.

Sweeping her cold gaze around the room one last time, Miss Hardbroom swiftly returned to her seat.

'Page four hundred and one, read the whole of chapter nineteen and have a one-thousand word essay as titled on the board to me by the end of the lesson. I expect SILENCE from each and every one of you. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, Miss Hardbroom.'

When they were sure it was safe to do so, the girls cautiously reached into their satchels, and pens and parchment were retrieved and arranged on desks. Griselda glanced quickly at Fenella, who raised her eyebrows and shrugged. HB was difficult at the best of times, and she certainly didn't make exceptions for the older girls; but she rarely shouted quite _that_ loudly...

x

After forty or so minutes of intense silence, during which the only sounds to be heard were that of quills scratching parchment and pages being turned, Griselda felt an elbow nudge her side. She glanced cautiously to her right, where Fenalla was watching Miss Hardbroom intently whilst waving a small piece of parchment beneath the desk for her friend to take. Satisfied that the potions mistress was engrossed in her work, Griselda reached over and quickly took the paper from between her friend's fingers, unfolding it as quietly as possible in her lap.

_What do you reckon's up with her? _It said.

Griselda glanced at her friend, who had retuned to frantically scrawling her essay.

Crossing out Fenalla's words, Griselda scribbled her response beneath.

_Prob stressed coz of BH visit. Don't write back, she'll kill us_.

The moment Fenella had taken the note from her fingers, Miss Hardbroom's eyes flickered up from her work and immediately met Griselda's. The young witch felt her cheeks redden as she awaited her fate; but either the glance had been a coincidence or she had just been lucky, as Miss Hardbroom, after a brief look at Fenella, retuned to her work.

Within moments Fenella, unaware of Miss Hardbroom's acknowledgement, was urging a reluctant Griselda to take another note.

_Shall we help her out? Cause a bit of grief for old Broomface? _

Griselda's face cracked briefly into a mischievous grin. After wasting several minutes contemplating irresistible acts of mayhem, brushing the feather of her quill absentmindedly against her cheek, Griselda's thoughts were distracted by the unfamiliar face which peered furtively at Miss Hardbroom through the pane of glass in the potion lab door.

_Who's that? _Griselda watched as her friend read her most recent note, inclining her head in the direction of the door whilst Fenella prepared a response.

_Whoever she is, she'll be sorry when HB catches her!_

As the two girls stretched their necks to get a better look, Griselda was suddenly aware of being thrust involuntarily towards her friend, colliding forcefully with her as a searing pain that Fenella seemed to recognise caused them both to cry out. Looking down, they saw their hips welded inseparably together, each of them pulling in the opposite direction before they realised what had happened.

'Fenella Feverfew and Griselda Blackwood,' Miss Hardbroom said, smoothly, her eyes briefly noting the visitor as she ducked out of view, 'Seeing as you seem to be unable to keep your hands off each other this morning, you will remain joined at the hip for the rest of the week.' There was a brief murmur of amusement from the other girls. 'May I wish you luck in carrying out your daily tasks.'

x

As the bell rang out at the end of the lesson, Fenella and Griselda emerged clumsily from the potions laboratory, each moaning that the other was pulling in the wrong direction as they staggered like a pair of amateurs attempting the three-legged race. The hallway was bustling with students on their way to morning break, some of the younger ones screaming and fleeing at the sight of the girls, despite recurrent dire warnings from Miss Hardbroom about running in the corridors.

They came to a stop after only a few paces, both huffing irritably and racking their brains for the severance spell as Miss Hardbroom swept past them on her way to the staffroom, ignoring them completely.

'Bitch,' Fenella hissed, glaring after her potions mistress. 'It's not _our_ fault Broomhead's back, is it? And why does HB get like this whenever she comes? She obviously learned her methods of discipline from Broomhead – I'd say they have rather a lot in common. And to think we were going to help her out!'

'Are you all right, Flora and Fauna?' came the familiar voice behind them. The girls deflated as they turned awkwardly to see Miss Drill striding towards them, hands on hips as she eyed them with quizzical amusement.

'HB joined us at the hip for the rest of the week,' Griselda huffed, miserably. 'It's bloody painful, I can tell you!'

Imogen raised her eyebrows, still seemingly restraining a giggle. 'Now then, Griselda, that's quite enough! The rules on swearing don't slacken just because you're in the fifth year. And it's _Miss Hardbroom_,' her expression softened. 'Besides, you must have done _something_ to provoke her. I know it doesn't always take much...'

The girls glanced at each other before Fenella spoke.

'We were only writing a few notes to each other in class. She normally lets us get on in pairs but... She was in a _foul _mood, Miss,' Fenella looked to her friend to back her up.

'Oh yeah,' Griselda nodded, vigorously. 'She's been OK with us recently, but she was angrier than I've seen her in ages. It's _got_ to be to do with the Broomhead visit, hasn't it?' Griselda broke off, jerking her head towards the waiflike woman who was now walking briskly into the staffroom, the same woman who had been peering into the potions lab earlier on. 'And has _she _got anything to do with Broomhead?'

'_Mistress_ Broomhead,' Imogen corrected, distractedly, as all three of them observed the same scene. 'Look, girls,' she turned her attention back to the students, 'I can't help you out of this one; but let me have a word with Miss Hardbroom and I'll see If I can persuade her that she's been a little hard on you this time. I'm sure once the stress of the visit is over, she'll see things differently.'

x

The staffroom was icily silent as the vulture-like Hecketty Broomhead strode ominouslyaround it, her trademark sneer fixed in place. Constance had quickly reached the conclusion that Broomhead was evidently refusing to address the room's current occupants until the headmistress made herself present. Imogen had hastened in late and without apology, and Constance was now pointedly ignoring her, staring directly ahead but watching her former tutor's every move in the periphery of her vision, all the while irritably aware of the small, sparrow-like woman who had so impertinently observed some of her previous potions lesson from the doorway. Despite the uncomfortable sensation in her throat, still heated by the second dose of Anti-Anxiety Draught that she had downed before entering the staffroom, Constance remained determinedly calm in order for the potion to react as effectively as possible. She couldn't help but feel a little pleased with herself at how composed she now was in Mistress Broomhead's presence – especially after the last visit, when Constance had decided to experiment without the Draught. The result on her nerves had verged on catastrophic, and following an hour's consolatory counselling with Amelia, Constance had reluctantly resigned herself to the notion that Mistress Broomhead's unpleasant demeanour did not become easier to endure with age.

As Amelia bustled into the room, closing the door behind her and shutting out the hubbub from the corridor, her eyes met Constance's for a split second and she arched an eyebrow, as if to acknowledge her deputy's misgivings.

'Ladies, we have only a short time before the next lesson commences,' Amelia said, clearly trying to make a point to their unwelcome visitors, 'But I am sure few introductions are necessary. You will all remember Mistress Broomhead, and it is our pleasure to welcome her here once more and, of course, her colleague, who I am sure will take the reins of school inspector most satisfactorily,' here her eyes crinkled into a warm smile that she bestowed upon the stranger, who nodded courteously back. 'I will leave it to Mistress Broomhead to introduce her.'

Broomhead puffed herself up and ushered the woman forward.

'Right, well – yes,' she crowed, coldly. 'This is Mistress Eva DeSilva. Mistress DeSilva will be taking my place at the Guild after my retirement in December, and I am sure you will all make her feel wholly welcome,' she turned her glowering attention to Constance, who felt a cold, prickling sensation about her scalp. 'School inspections are - from next year - to be conducted annually, therefore as deputy headmistress, and as it is your duty to unburden Miss Cackle, you and Mistress DeSilva will be seeing a great deal more of each other.'

Constance observed the young woman who was making her way to each staff member in turn, offering her hand with a cordial greeting. Petite was the only word that could be used to describe her stature. She was perhaps in her late twenties – a good ten years younger than Constance, with black hair that cascaded in sculpted waves just beyond her shoulder. Her skin was porcelain pale and her eyes smouldered around the edges with understated gothic makeup, contrasting with the blue of her irises. Crimson lips spread into a sultry, self assured smile, and every inch of her clothing flattered her tiny frame as though it had been tailored to her own personal specifications.

'Good morning, Miss Hardbroom', she purred as she reached the potions mistress. Her voice was low and tinted with foreign tones, although the inflection was so slight that Constance was unsure if it was long-lost French or perhaps something more exotic. Mistress DeSilva extended her hand to Constance, who regarded it cautiously before taking it briefly in her own. She noted with disapproval the deep claret-polished nails and the lace which detailed the cuff of her velvet jacket. Constance glanced up and was startled to be confronted by the searching, glacier-blue eyes that seemed to watch her intently from beneath thick, black lashes. If Constance hadn't just met the woman, she would have taken that meaningful look to be a silent attempt at telepathy...

Amelia hesitated, seemingly having noticed the intense moment that had passed between the two women. 'I, er – trust your journey was a pleasant one, Mistress DeSilva?'

'Very pleasant,' the young witch averted her attention from Constance and surveyed her surroundings, making her way gracefully to the window and turning her gaze towards the bright morning sky. 'Your premises are set within such beautiful countryside. And please, do call me Eva.'

For a moment the room seemed to be captivated by her: it was rare that a figure of such subtle glamour graced the draughty depths of Castle Overblow. And although Constance outwardly disapproved of such frivolous attempts at self-packaging, she found it difficult not to appreciate this striking creature's beauty, wishing momentarily that she'd had more nerve to emphasise some of her own better features when she'd been younger. Her gaze drifted to Imogen, whose head was tilted slightly in assessment of Mistress DeSilva's attire: the aforementioned black velvet jacket, a black calf-length pencil skirt, close-knit fishnet stockings and meticulously polished patent court shoes. Amelia watched their guest with guarded suspicion, and Davina seemed to be sizing up her own fingerless lace gloves, as though she thought they might compliment Mistress DeSilva's outfit.

'Yes, well, pleasantries aside,' Broomhead snapped, placing her cup onto its saucer with a clink of bone china, 'I suggest we set out our proposed plan of action, to be sure that no one is in the dark as to exactly why we are here.' She took a seat at the table and helped herself to the contents of the biscuit tin, much to Amelia's obvious irritation. 'Miss Drill – as a non witch I see no reason to take up any more of your time. You are free to leave.'

Hot rage instantly flushed Imogen's cheeks.

'Excuse me, Mistress Broomhead,' she began, coolly. 'But I do _not_ need your permission to –' the words failed her as Constance silenced her with a brief flex of her spell casting fingers. Imogen looked daggers at Constance, who shot a warning glance back. In an apparent attempt to ensure that Broomhead had not noticed the prohibited use of magic on a non-witch, Amelia interjected:

'I have decided, also, that Miss Hardbroom need not be present after this initial meeting.' The headmistress's countenance was non-negotiable.

Constance closed her eyes and drew a sharp intake of breath. Mistress Broomhead, who had been flicking through what appeared to be some sort of register, sat rigidly still and clenched her jaw.

'Have you now, Miss Cackle.' She didn't look up from her papers as she spoke. 'As a member of your governing body I must warn you that all decisions lie with –'

'Mistress Broomhead, if you will allow me,' interrupted the low, lyrical voice from the window. All of them turned to see Mistress DeSilva meandering across the room and behind Mistress Broomhead's chair, on the back of which she gently placed a hand. 'I feel duty bound to remind you that this is not an inspection in the normal sense. We are here for you to hand over your paperwork, and for me to get to know the school and its staff. No formal plan of action has yet been decided. Indeed, as you will remember, you suggested that we "play it by ear".'

A loaded silence hung in the air, and Constance, though habitually distracted by her fear of Broomhead, felt a strange sensation of awe for this unknown woman. She had never met anyone, in all her time spent under the blood-curdling gaze of Mistress Broomhead, who had contradicted her in any way and failed to pay the price. A painful recollection flashed through Constance's mind as she remembered her old classmate, Stella Phoenix. _No, Constance_, she rebuked herself inwardly, taking a deep, steadying breath, every shred of her resolve restraining her from clasping the back of the nearest chair for support. _Now is not the time to dwell.._.

Imogen, seemingly experimenting to see if she had regained the power of speech, attempted to clear her throat but to no avail. Davina now had one hand behind her on the stationery cupboard door, and as it began to tremble she hastily placed the other hand over it as if to quell the vibration. All of them ostensibly awaited Broomhead's explosion which, to their mutual surprise, never came.

'Of course, Eva – you are right.' Broomhead straightened up and scowled at each of them in turn as she spoke. 'Ladies, there will be minimal disruption to classes during the two days of our visit. Mistress DeSilva will acquaint herself with you individually and liaise with me to go through the relevant paperwork. We will make use of the staffroom during this time. Now, Miss Cackle – do you have the student profiles to hand?'

'Erm – yes,' Amelia hesitated, shoving Davina aside and fiddling with the lock to the stationery cupboard to retrieve a thick, buff file which was untidily crammed with papers. She handed it to Broomhead, who clicked her teeth in annoyance at its haphazard state.

'Yes, well, that will do. If you would excuse us, Mistress DeSilva and I wish to peruse the records. Have someone take our belongings up to our chambers, will you?'

Amelia nodded to Imogen, who, still unable to verbally protest, looked furiously back at her and reluctantly bent down to heave the two holdalls from the floor, lugging them out of the room as the teachers filed into the corridor. Amelia furtively grabbed the biscuit tin as they went.

'Why didn't you let me –' Imogen hissed at Constance, the moment they were outside, finally liberated from her spell.

'Under no circumstances do you argue with Mistress Broomhead,' Constance growled through gritted teeth.

'Now then, ladies – that's quite enough,' Amelia placed herself between the two women. 'We don't want mutiny in the ranks at a time like this. Let us resume our day as though nothing were out of the ordinary. The sooner we let them get on with their job, the sooner we can pack them off back to the Guild. Davina, what on _earth_ are you doing?'

The three of them turned to see the chanting teacher, who had momentarily disappeared, now noisily peeling yards of Sellotape and sticking a multicoloured "Welcome, Esteemed Inspectors" sign to the staffroom door.

'Sybil and Clarice made it!' she beamed, happily. 'Isn't it lovely?'

There was a mutual sigh of resignation amongst the staff. Some people, Constance reflected, as she stalked back in the direction of the potions lab, were beyond help.

x

Mildred glanced up at the clock on her bedroom wall and groaned. Five twenty-five. As the pendulum swung loudly beneath the owl-shaped timepiece, its large, saucer-like eyes switched from side to side in a way that had seemed comical when her older brother Edward had first given it to her, as a present for winning her scholarship to Cackles. Now, four years on, she was feeling a little mocked by the childishness of it. And whether or not Miss Hardbroom chose to acknowledge the fact, Mildred was indeed becoming a young woman, and household items in the shape of animals – along with the Tomy tape recorder she'd lent to Ruby in the hope that she'd bust it during one of her scientific experiments – were fast becoming a sign of her past.

There was a brisk rap of knuckles at her door, and Mildred instantly recognised Enid's signature knock.

'Come in,' she breathed, wearily, although the door had already clicked open and Enid's fringe-framed face peered in, her thick mocha plait hanging heavily over her shoulder.

'Come on, Mil,' she said, jerking her head in the direction of the corridor. 'We'd better get Hardbroom over and done with. I'm really not in the mood for lines tonight,' she flapped her writing hand in the air as if to loosen it up. 'We had a mock exam in my extra Myths and Legends class just now – my fingers are all stiff.'

Mildred huffed and heaved herself up from her bed, bending down to scratch behind Tabby's ears. His purr rattled loudly in his throat, and he rubbed himself against Mildred's ankles as she fumbled in her pocket.

'Won't be long, Tab,' she whispered, scattering half a dozen catnip drops on the floor. 'At least, I hope I won't be...'

The two girls made their way down the corridor in silence, Mildred's bootlaces trailing behind her whilst Enid absentmindedly hummed the school song. Mildred could feel her friend stealing sideward glances at her every so often, as if trying to gauge her mood, and plainly thinking better of it than to forge some meaningless apology. As they turned the corner that led to the potions lab, Enid grabbed Mildred's arm, forcing her to stop so that they faced each other.

'Look, Millie – I'm sorry, OK?' she said, genuinely. 'I should never have cast the spell. It was just a laugh, that's all,'

Mildred sighed miserably, her shoulders slumping.

'Just tell Miss Hardbroom, will you?' she pleaded. 'She _always_ thinks everything's my fault. I'll admit I made the quip if you just admit you cast the spell, and that I didn't actually _ask_ you to do it.'

Enid's gaze rested on the slit of light which escaped from beneath the potion lab door, and she bit her lip, considering the proposition.

'OK,' she said, affirmatively, shaking her fringe out of her eyes. 'I'll tell her. Here goes...'

As the girls neared the potions lab, however, they became aware that Miss Hardbroom was not alone in the room. Mildred placed a silencing finger in front of her lips, her eyes narrowed questioningly at Enid. The door was ajar and Mildred put her ear as close to the gap as she could without making herself visible, but the voices within were drowned out by the distant clink of cutlery being arranged in the Great Hall. They waited for several minutes before Enid folded her arms and sighed loudly.

'Oh well, she signed, shrugging at Mildred and turning back the way they had just come.

'What are you doing?' Mildred hissed after her, as Enid broke into a flamboyant skip along the corridor.

'Buggering off,' replied her friend, serenely. 'It's nearly twenty-to. If HB can't be bothered to keep an appointment, neither can I.'

Mildred stopped herself from calling Enid back, and rolled her eyes as her friend disappeared into the shadows. Turning her attention back to the potions lab, she strained again to listen. She could just make out the shadowy movement within, cast by the dim glow of candlelight that Miss Hardbroom chose to work by whenever she was in there after the end of the school day. Whoever she was talking to did not have a voice Mildred recognised, although she immediately ruled out Mistress Broomhead, whose clipped, cut-glass coldness would probably chill her memory for the rest of her days. No, it wasn't Broomhead – but she vaguely remembered mention of a second member of the Guild: someone who was to take over from Broomhead after her retirement. No one had taken much notice of that part of the bulletin announcement, too preoccupied were they by the prospect of more clocks appearing all over the place and the already-unyielding rules being stretched to the extreme.

'Shut up!' Mildred whispered, casting a glance in the direction of the Great Hall, the noise from which being the only thing that prevented her from concentrating on the conversation inside. Then a thought struck her – the Voluminous Maximus spell. Miss Cackle had taught it to them last term – an incantation that improves the hearing threefold, for use in situations such as a restaurant made up of hard surfaces (Mildred's mind cast itself back to her last visit to Pizza Express, where she'd given up trying to hear Maud's half term tales above the hubbub of diners), and in places where general racket was part of the territory, such as train stations and airports. Mildred wondered momentarily if nosying-in on a teacher's conversation counted as "selfish and trivial purposes", before guiltily shoving the thought to the back of her mind – yes, it probably did. But she'd broken that rule so many times during her days at Cackle's – _everyone_ had – and she'd not yet been expelled for it.

Mildred splayed out her hands, placing her fingertips around her ears as though holding Princess Leia's hairstyle in place. Muttering the spell under her breath, she flinched as the volume all around her reverberated loudly along her ear canal, accompanied by a piercing shrill, like feedback through a microphone. _"Focus,"_ Miss Cackle's words rang through her memory. _"Focus on what you want to hear"_.

Mildred put all her energy into her mind's image of Miss Hardbroom. She focussed on the potions lab itself, the fact that there were two people in it, the lighting, the sweet scent of almonds that still clung to the air after the previous class's brewing of Tantric Tonic...

Someone had once told Mildred that going though someone else's personal belongings – much like tuning into a private conversation – was the perfect way to find out something you'd rather you didn't know.

And as the young witch tuned in to the conversation between Miss Hardboom and Eva DeSilva, Mildred had no idea that what she was about to hear would change her perception of her form mistress forever.

_**A/N**_

_**Three questions:**_

_**What did Mildred hear?**_

_**Who is Stella Phoenix? **_

_**and When are Constance and Imogen going to share a bed? (LOL)**_

_**Tune in next time...**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry for the delay, folks – this has been a difficult chapter to write so it's been holding me up. Plus I was writing my oneshot (well, it's two chapters long) "To Friendship" (plug!) which got in the way a bit; but I hope to concentrate on this one now and update a little more regularly. **

**Thanks for hanging on in there! **

**HBF :-)**

**4**

As the day neared its end and Constance busied herself with marking fifth-year potions essays, she considered herself rather lucky not to have been subjected to Mistress Broomhead's objectionable company as much as she had feared she would be. She had, of course, avoided the vicinity of the staffroom; but so had the rest of the teachers, instead packing into the limited space of Amelia's office at lunchtime. Constance had bagged the best seat in the house (bar the one behind Amelia's desk), and Imogen and Davina had occupied corners of the dusty floor, where Davina had seemed very much at home and Imogen had insisted she was comfortable, despite irritably shifting her position at frequent intervals. Amelia made a conscious effort to steer the conversation away from the inspectors, and Constance had been much relieved to make it to her next lesson without encountering either of them _en route_.

It was almost five thirty. Any time now, Mildred and Enid would pitch up, each trying to dig the other out of the rut they had got themselves into with the fiasco by the lake the previous evening. The usual rehearsed apologies would ensue and Constance would recite her age-old warnings about the very real possibilities of expulsion. As the door to the lab creaked open, Constance didn't look up as she recognised Mildred's trademark hesitation. Why the girl could never make a confident entrance into a room was beyond the potions mistress. In fact, if there was something that irritated Constance more than incapability, it was hesitance.

'Come in, girls,' she muttered, wearily, not looking up from her work. 'Take your places and copy out what is on the board five hundred times. You know the drill.'

The footsteps, however, were not those of hobnailed boots. They were the slow, measured clop of more graceful heels, and Constance was immediately wrong-footed by her own indignation as she looked up to see Eva DeSilva drifting across the room towards her, her eyes musing at the blackboard.

'_I must not attempt to drown my fellow classmates_,' she read, with a tone that suggested she admired the students' all-out approach to mischief. 'Quite a handful, by the look of it. But nothing _you _can't handle. I must say, Miss Hardbroom,' here she set her eyes on Constance, her expression thoughtful, 'You're not what I expected. Not at all.'

Constance felt thoroughly piqued at being analysed. She put down her quill and pushed the pile of essays aside, fixing the young woman with an unblinking gaze. 'And what, prey, _did_ you expect, Mistress DeSilva?'

The gothic eyes narrowed in contemplation.

'A weakling,' she smiled, contemplatively. 'A waif. An empty husk of a woman. Like the empty husks of girls that graduate from our institution every year.' After eyeing an unflinching Constance for several moments, Eva walked casually over to the window and fumbled in her jacket pocket, retrieving a small package which Constance instantly recognised to be an expensive brand of hemlock-infused cigarette.

'Do you mind?' Eva gestured with a cigarette, poised to light.

'They're no good for you,' Constance sniffed, raising an eyebrow in disapproval at the sight she recognised so well. Mistress Broomhead had attempted to corrupt her with her foul nicotine habit, too. 'But if you must...'

'Old habits die hard, but manners cost nothing,' Eva said, conversationally, acknowledging Constance's subtle indication and duly flinging open the window. The sound of the evening air wafted through, and Eva's face was momentarily illuminated as she flicked the switch of her lighter, cupping a hand about the end of the cigarette. She inhaled the smoke sharply through her teeth, leaning against the window frame.

'You were unlucky, Constance.' She said, thoughtfully.

'I beg your pardon?' Constance set her jaw, uncomfortably aware of where this conversation was heading. Eva took another drag of her cigarette, the smoke illustrating the cold air as she spoke.

'She singled you out. Hecketty, I mean. Her "mouldable protégée". And you endured her foul attentions by adhering to her brutality, aware that challenging her would see you expelled. It's a simple ritual, Constance. A vicious cycle that I've seen repeated time and time again.'

One of the many things Constance prided herself on was being a remarkable judge of character. Whether or not she chose to maintain a civil stance with someone, she knew whose heart was in the right place, and could spot a bad egg in an instant. For example, Constance kept a closer eye on the Ethel Hallows of this world than she ever did the likes of Mildred Hubble. Academic she may be, along with her three sisters before her; but Ethel was the archetypal bully, and no amount of A* grades could justify such a deplorable character flaw. But she had to admit to herself that Mistress Eva DeSilva had thus far proved to be entirely unreadable, and Constance was unsettled, to say the least. Constance was not used to intense types, and certainly not complete strangers who took it upon themselves to evaluate her past. She knew the other staff members were endlessly intrigued by it: that it supplied them with hours of conversation when she was absent from the staffroom, that it fuelled an unspoken competition – particularly amongst the non-witches such as Miss Drill and Miss Lamplighter – to be the one who would finally crack Constance's shell; but the stories of her Broomhead days were not ones she revisited voluntarily. And if she wasn't so intent on punishing herself for her role in Broomhead's reign of terror, Constance would have had every last trace of the woman exorcised from her soul long ago.

'You're still haunted by her, aren't you?' Eva's gaze remained on the indigo sky as she spoke. Constance said nothing, absentmindedly picking at the corner of a piece of parchment and aware of a bitter, fearful taste in her mouth.

'People like Hecketty never go away,' Eva continued, as though she were making a trivial observation. 'Not _really_. You can rid them from your company, but they're always there, in one form or another. In the subconscious, in an association, a dream...' She turned from the window, extinguishing her cigarette and causing the stub to vanish with a brief flick of her fingers. 'And she's with you every day of your life, isn't she? Like a bad penny.'

'And how, may I ask, do you profess to know so much about me?' Eva was already walking over to the desk, an almost wild smile flashing across her face.

'Because she is _obsessed_ with you, Constance! She _chose _you, she wanted to _mould _you, and you dared to escape her with at least some semblance of your sanity intact. Since I have worked with her at Witch Training College and the Witches Guild, she has crushed the life out of every girl unfortunate enough to pass under her tutelage.' Eva leant on the desk, her eyes warning Constance with the same look they had given her in the staffroom. 'But she refuses to forget _you_. She's not finished with you, Constance.'

Constance got quickly to her feet as though regaining her towering height was the only way to distance herself from the relentless onslaught.

'Mistress DeSilva, if you have come here merely to taunt me with distant memories –'

'But I _haven't_, Constance!' now significantly shorter than the potions mistress, her face upturned to Constance's, a desperate urgency flashed in Eva's eyes. 'You _have_ to listen to me.'

'Do I?' Constance sneered with forced sarcasm as she turned wipe the chalk from the board, all the time trembling inwardly at the words which blared like a klaxon in her mind. _"She's not finished with you..."_

Fixing her eyes somewhere on the blackboard, Constance was aware of the young woman nearing her.

'Would you listen if I mentioned the Room of Curses?'

Constance froze, a sickening feeling rising in her stomach.

She'd known it would return to haunt her one day. The sins of youth always did, blindsiding you on some idle weekday afternoon when everything else was good in your world. _Someday_, Constance had often reflected, when her mind lingered a little too long over her fear, usually in the small hours, when her rounds were complete and sleep just wouldn't come. _Someday, far in the future. Let's not worry about it now.._.

But Someday had come. Someday was Today, and the guilt that seeped into Constance's blood like a glutinous poison felt as though it were burning her flesh from the inside. And the people she cared about – Amelia, Davina, Imogen – flashed through her mind. And for the first time in her life, she feared them...

'You know what she does to them, Constance. You know how she tortures them to the brink of insanity. And you knew _exactly_ what she was doing all those years ago, when she created the room – because you cursed it.'

Thoroughly horrified by the reality of the accusations, Constance closed her eyes briefly and, for the first time since early childhood, longed for her mother. Feeling the first sting of tears, she waited for them to abate, a rush of panic surging through her as she remembered that the classroom door was still slightly ajar. Turning to implore the young woman's silence, Constance was shocked to see tears cascading silently down Eva's motionless face.

'Constance – _please_. You are the only one who can help us.'

x

At that moment, the door to the potions lab had slammed shut, bolted almost simultaneously from the inside and the window pane blacked out as though an incantation had been placed on it to isolate the room from intruders. Mildred Hubble was concealed in the shadows outside, a hand clasped over her mouth, gripped by fear and unsure whether her curiosity could take any more.

As Mildred tore off down the corridor and back towards her room, her heart pumped frantically at the realisation that the Constance Hardbroom she had grown to admire, the Constance Hardbroom whom – despite their conflicting personalities – she had always given the benefit of the doubt, really did have a lot more in common with Mistress Broomhead than her imagination had ever entertained.

x

The key rattled noisily as it found its place in the lock of Constance's bedroom door, and Imogen edged it open, peering inside. Despite having knocked, she was still afraid of potentially finding an alarmed Constance clad in only a towel, or half dressed, or in some other compromising situation that would immediately see the gym mistress banished to the dungeons for the next two nights. Satisfied that the chamber was indeed unoccupied, Imogen left the door ajar to allow the gentle glow from the landing to light her way to Constance's dressing table, where she lit a candle, thereafter lighting several other candles in the chamber until the room glowed with an ochre hue.

There was an all-encompassing sense of Constance about the chamber, as if despite her absence a part of her was indeed present. And although Imogen doubted the potions mistress would resort to lurking invisibly in the shadows of her own bedroom to observe her temporary companion, her rationale did not persuade her to rifle through Constance's things, tempting as it was to find evidence of anything in particular that made the potions mistress tick.

Imogen had been here once before – when she had opened her heart to Constance and revealed her true feelings. The recollection had always been an uncomfortable one, and she could only assume that it was for Constance, too. She had an image in her mind of a scene unfolding later that evening when Constance finally returned to her abode. There would be a mutually unspoken recollection of the event, an acknowledgement that whilst certain things had been said, others had not, and tension would hang in the air and probably cause an argument. Someway, somehow – they needed to have it out once and for all so that they both knew where they stood; but Imogen had an undeniable suspicion that Constance would probably avoid her chamber until the small hours, satisfied that Imogen had probably fallen asleep.

Turning on the bathroom tap and holding her toothbrush under the jet of cold water, Imogen's eyes wandered around the room, immaculately clean as only Constance Hardbroom's bathroom could be at all times. On the back of the basin, she noticed a small, tulip-shaped bottle with a pearl stopper, which her eyes remained on curiously as she brushed her teeth. Rinsing her mouth and laying her toothbrush aside, Imogen glanced to the door and picked up the bottle, unscrewing the stopper and inhaling the musky scent. She immediately felt an involuntary jolt as the subtle scent she associated with Constance intoxicated her – that light, indistinguishable feminine aroma that she caught from time to time as Constance swept past her in the corridors, or when they were at reasonably close quarters in the staffroom. She racked her brains briefly for a suitable, empty vessel of her own that she could use to decant a small amount of the perfume into so that she could keep a little dose of Constance in her bedside cabinet. But no... She replaced the stopper and held the bottle up to the light. The glass was almost transparent. Constance being Constance, she would know some was missing.

After changing into her pale blue silk pyjamas, Imogen regarded the bed before her with a strange jolt in her stomach. It was neatly adorned with the same purple velvet throw that all the staff had in their rooms, beneath which were cotton sheets of the highest quality (one perk of the job, at least). She ought to pick a side: the side Constance was least likely to sleep on herself. A small smile broke out across Imogen's face as she mused at her own methodical approach, wondering if any logic could be applied to working out just which side of the bed Constance Hardbroom was most likely to take. She thought back to the night of the dinner, when Constance had escorted a drunken Imogen back to her own room and laid her on her bed, before the gym mistress had made a foolish pass at her. That had been the right side, she recalled. Feeling inexplicably self-conscious, Imogen climbed into the left side of the bed, immediately feeling the coolness of the sheets against her skin as she nestled into the sumptuous pillow. Berating herself for wondering if she was indeed being watched, she turned to face the middle of the bed and felt for the other pillow, drawing it to her face and inhaling deeply. The same, familiar scent of the potions mistress sent yet another wave of euphoria though Imogen's abdomen. She smiled again, closing her eyes in relish.

Imogen made a mental note to savour every moment that she spent in the same bed as Constance Hardbroom.

x

Mildred hadn't slept a wink. She sat at the head of her bed with her knees drawn up to her chest, and Tabby circled obliviously around her shoulders.

'Oh, Tab,' she said sadly, into his fur. 'You have no idea how lucky you are to be a dumb animal,' she instantly felt a pang of guilt at her own unkind words, but was reassured by Tabby's compassionate purr. 'At least all you have to worry about is where your next kipper is going to come from.' As she was about to relay the events of the early evening to her pet, the way she always did when she had information too sensitive for even Maud's ears, Mildred froze, sure that she'd heard a soft rap at her door.

Mildred listened attentively to the silence that ensued, her tensed muscles relaxing slightly as she persuaded herself that the sound had been a figment of her rather over-zealous imagination. Glancing at the clock, she saw it was 10.25 p.m.

_Not even Maud would still be awake at this time_, she thought to herself.

When the knock came again, and with more force, she knew it was for real.

Quickly unravelling Tabby from around her shoulders, Mildred put him gently onto the bed, sliding her feet into her slippers and proceeding cautiously to the door. Listening for a moment, she put her hand to the latch and lifted it, pulling the door back only slightly to see a familiar figure standing in the darkness. Mildred's stomach plummeted.

'So. _You're_ Mildred Hubble.' said Eva DeSilva, with a smile that didn't extend to her eyes.

'What do you want?' Mildred was surprised at her own defensive tone, aware that it probably arose from the feeling of being in yet more trouble.

'You were listening at the door when I was speaking to Miss Hardbroom earlier.' Eva's statement was clearly not up for dispute. Mildred felt herself blush, grateful there wasn't enough light to illuminate her reddening cheeks. Before she could force two hands against the back of her door to shove it closed, Eva was stepping uninvited into the room.

'A word, if I may.'

x

Imogen was lying wide awake in the darkness when she heard Constance's door open, loudly and without consideration that someone may have been sleeping inside. Imogen ran her palm gently over the mattress in search of her mobile, which she had concealed beneath the duvet. She pressed a random button so that the screen illuminated to reveal the time. 3.26 a.m. She allowed herself a quiet, frustrated snort. Was her company really so objectionable to Constance that the potions mistress felt the need to avoid her own bedroom until it was practically dawn?

Imogen lay perfectly still on her side as she watched the shadowy figure of Constance disappear into the bathroom, listening as she brushed her teeth. She checked her Facebook mobile account to kill time, toying with the idea of updating her status: _Imogen Drill is waiting for the witch she is deeply and inappropriately besotted with to get into bed with her_ – before reminding herself that Amelia's niece had set up a profile for the Headmistress during the holidays, and that Amelia was indeed now one of her "friends".

Her thoughts were interrupted as Constance emerged from the bathroom, making her way around to the other side of the bed. As Imogen remained motionless, she became aware of a kerfuffle behind her, accompanied by the pounding and puffing-up of pillows. Unable to make out what was going on without turning over, Imogen rolled onto her back and peered at the silhouetted figure of Constance. Reaching cautiously towards the middle of the bed, Imogen realised that Constance had lined several pillows between the two of them, all the way from one end of the bedstead to the other. With an involuntary gasp of astonishment, Imogen sat bolt upright, outrage trembling through her entire being.

'It's _all_ _right_, Constance,' she snarled. 'I wasn't planning on molesting you, or anything!'

Angered further by the infuriating lack of response, Imogen huffed and lay heavily on her side so that she had her back to the Great Wall of Pillows, pulling the duvet tightly around her shoulder and desperate to pick a further fight and expend some of her rage. _She'd deserve it_, she thought, frustrated. _She treats me like_ _shit! Absolute fucking shit! _Tears stung in her eyes as a helpless lump swelled in her throat.

But if Imogen had just happened to light her way around to the other side of the bed - if she had just taken a _moment _to swallow her pride and ask her colleague what had kept her so long, which Constance, despite herself, so desperately wished that she would - Imogen would have found the potions mistress lying on her opposite side, her fearful eyes unblinking as a tear rolled out of the corner, losing itself uncomfortably somewhere between the the downy hair of her temple and her sodden pillow.

The conversation with Eva had exhausted her. The revelation of what was about to happen petrified her. And, as Constance's eyes eventually fluttered shut, the nightmare that had haunted her since her Broomhead days reared its hideous head, to terrify her once again.

_Thanks for reading - please review!_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Hello again. Thanks to all of you who are keeping up with this.**_

_**Here's Chapter 5 – I'm afraid it's a bit nasty in places, so if you have any little ones you don't wish to be plagued by nightmares, best not leave it open and unattended! **_

_**HBF :-)**_

**5**

Seventeen years ago to the day, twenty-one year old Constance Hardbroom had been walking along a darkened corridor of Witch Training College, a lantern suspended in front of her, lighting the shadows. She tried, as she always did when summoned to see her tutor after dark, to ignore the suspicious eyes that scowled down on her from the portraits of previous college Mistresses. Her high ponytail, already to her waist in length, swished behind her as though unseen fingers snatched at it in the darkness, and every now and then she turned in fear, afraid of the demons of College folklore: ghosts whom, by day, she publicly negated. By night however, their existence felt all too real.

Turning a gloomy corner that Constance knew ultimately led to a dead end, she slowed her pace, moving gingerly towards the only door in the Lower Balefire Wing. Shards of moonlight were cast from the steeped windows, and Constance held up her lantern so that a name plaque was illuminated in all its brass glory.

She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath, before rapping her knuckles firmly against the wood.

'Come,' said the unfazed voice from within.

Constance entered the room with the same brusque confidence that had been drummed into her from day one. Something that once hadn't come naturally to her at all was now ingrained, and Constance was aware that she had become a very different young woman to the shrinking violet who had begun her studies three years previously.

Mistress Broomhead was sitting at the desk of her private study, poised for business as always and writing up what Constance assumed was some sort of research. The walls were packed from ceiling to floor with books, and a gentle breeze ruffled a damsen voile through the window that looked out onto the College's manicured quadrangle. Constance could hear the soothing sound of the fountain in the centre of the lawn and contemplated how inviting the candlelit office would have been, were it not for its glacier-cold inhabitant.

'Close the door, girl,' Broomhead didn't look up from her work as she spoke. Constance did as she was told and presented herself back at her tutor's desk, with the slight clearing of her throat that had become her habitual nervous tick in the presence of Mistress Broomhead.

'Have you prepared the incantation?'

'Yes, Mistress Broomhead.'

Broomhead closed the book she was writing in, emitting a puff of dust into the air. She pushed the half-moon spectacles further up the crooked nose that gave her the appearance of a bird of prey.

'Then we shall make our way down.' Broomhead picked up the tumbler that resided on a coaster under her desk lantern, and swiftly drained the contents. 'Lead the way, Hardbroom.'

x

The spiral stone steps that led to the basement dungeon were so narrow that Constance felt her heart rate pick up slightly as she descended them. There was a distinctive yet indescribable smell, like the mixture of damp, dust and cold, and Constance's fingers splayed out on the stone wall as she felt her way cautiously down, her lantern held awkwardly behind her for the benefit only of Mistress Broomhead. Constance could fall and crack her skull as far as her tutor was concerned; but as long as Broomhead could see where she was going, all was well. A resentful shudder chilled Constance to the core as she reached the final step, now making her way along the dank, eerie underbelly of the College. From somewhere, a rhythmic drip echoed menacingly, and Constance was sure she could hear the squawking of rats...

Broomhead seized the lantern from her.

'Come on girl, quickly!'

Broomhead picked up speed as if even she were uncomfortable being down there any longer than absolutely necessary, and within a few short seconds they had arrived at a looming oak door at the very end of the corridor. It looked as though it hadn't been opened for years, almost like it had been sealed with enchanted cobwebs. Constance wondered – _hoped_ – that it might not open: that even Broomhead's most advanced magical attempts would be futile; that it had indeed been locked by some unknown magical curse...

'What are you waiting for? Go on!' Broomhead's frenzied tones reverberated within the cold stone space, and with a sense of deepening foreboding, Constance approached the door and unfastened the latch, turning the oversized handle. With a sinking feeling, she pulled the door effortlessly open.

There was nothing but darkness inside, and she looked back to Mistress Broomhead to await further instruction. Her tutor merely nodded, a foul sneer on her face.

Muttering a silent prayer in her mind to whichever God or Goddess might be listening, Constance begged their forgiveness of what she was about to do. Raising her spell casting fingers towards the open room, Constance fought against an icy shudder as the dark magic possessed her body, demonic angels speaking through her mouth in their screeching,sinister wails. She spoke the words of the incantation she had formulated, hoping against hope that it wouldn't work, whatever agonising punishment that might provoke from Mistress Broomhead. She would take it. She would endure it for the sake of her peers. And although she could not call any of them friends – Constance being universally perceived as a treacherous ally of their fearsome tutor – she would defend them until her last breath.

Constance struggled to stay on her feet, so intense was this form of dark magic on her young body. What had once been a black void between four walls glowed a vicious, fiery red, and the evil voices of unseen demons sounded from within, speaking in indecipherable tongues and laughing wickedly. The reality of evil was petrifying to Constance, so far removed from the ghost stories she'd heard the girls telling each other in her dormitory when she'd pretended to sleep, not invited to join in the fun. They usually ended in them all collapsing with laughter, each trying to outdo the other with exaggerated tales of vengeful poltergeists and the ghosts of suicidal College porters...

This, though, was entirely different. The whole place was full of a malevolence that Constance had never really believed existed. She wondered for a moment, as the peak of the curse channelled through her fingers and into the space, if she'd ever shake off this fear: if she would ever truly escape the demons she had now made herself known – no – _akin_ to. As the light exploded in the room like someone had imprisoned the sun within it, Constance sensed Broomhead behind her, no doubt thoroughly enjoying the spectacle that unravelled before her, thrilled by every evil word spoken and waiting for the final effect to hit Constance, which, as the light dissipated and the door slammed loudly shut, it did.

Constance inhaled with a strangled, high-pitched sound, and collapsed. Mistress Broomhead seized her instantly, dropping the unlit lantern so that it crashed to the floor. Vaguely aware of the sound of it rolling away, Constance's eyes widened in the darkness as she struggled feebly to free herself from Mistress Broomhead's vicelike grasp. She felt herself suddenly hoisted to her feet, Broomhead grunting as she hooked her arms underneath Constance's. Her legs still weak from the incantation, Constance was dragged on her knees, her dress tearing against the gritty stone of the floor.

'We'll see if it works, shall we?' Broomhead was so close to Constance that the young witch caught a whiff of her foul breath. Realising that Broomhead was groping for the door handle, Constance panicked and began to shriek and thrash about, summoning every scrap of her waning strength as Broomhead finally restrained both of Constance's arms with one of hers.

'_NO!_' Constance cried, as the door flew open and she was thrust into the room, staggering forwards so far that by the time she managed to turn back and make for the door, Broomhead had slammed it shut and put a spell on it so that it disappeared.

Inside the windowless, now door-less room, Constance's breath heaved, her chest rising and falling quickly as she tried to rein in her panic. She backed up to the wall, her wide eyes flicking around her pitch black surroundingsfor something, _anything_ to focus on. _Come on, Constance_, she told herself silently. _She wouldn't do this!_ _Not even Broomhead would do this to you!_

As the moments passed and her breath steadied to near-silence, Constance was overwhelmed by a sense of hopelessness and sank to the ground, burying her head in her knees and praying that despite what she had witnessed, the spell hadn't worked: that this spell, of all that Constance Hardbrooom had ever cast, would be the first one she had ever got wrong.

And then it began.

Distant at first, but undeniable. The quiet, rhythmic chanting. The sound of a crowd drawing nearer. Constance raised her head quickly, a spasm of fear in her stomach as a scene flashed into view for a millisecond.

'God, no,' she shuddered, the darkness returning almost as quickly as it had been illuminated.

And then again: the chanting, continuous as it had been even in the blackness, was growing louder. The scene flashed before her eyes a second time, closer now. A crowd. Pointing, chanting the words that Constance could only hope she had misheard, the words no witch ever wants to hear in her life:

'Stake bait! Stake bait! Stake bait!'

Constance was aware of her own feeble whimperings coming from somewhere far back in her throat as hyperventilation took over. The scene flashed before her again, this time for a mere matter of seconds longer, and Constance's eyes darted around wildly, trying to take in as much of it as possible. She retched, plunged into darkness once more, having caught sight of a haphazard pile of sticks from which a stout post loomed, loose ropes coiled around it. Everything was in place except its victim. The chanting grew louder still, and Constance covered her hands with her eyes, gasping for breath between the choking sobs, aware that they were drowned out by the sound of the crowd.

This time, when the scene reappeared, it didn't abate.

Constance screamed as a hundred or more pairs of glinting eyes were on her, their jeering savage and unrelenting, their voyeuristic amusement at her expense, their fists punching the air with every vile syllable of the chant.

'Stake bait! Stake bait! Stake bait!'

Before she could even consider casting a counter-spell, Constance felt a large hand grip her upper arm, and was horrified to see a masked figure hoisting her to her unsteady feet, the crowd hollering as she was bundled forwards and two more figures seized an arm each. She fought violently between the two men who, despite their relatively limited height, had between them the strength of bears.

'Got a frisky one 'ere, Dick,' said the prickly-faced, redheaded one to the rotund hulk of a man who was his accomplice.

'Indeed we 'ave, Jack. Best be still, Witch. None o' yer magic's gonna stop what's coming to yer!'

They both wheezed with laughter as Constance's streaming eyes pleaded with her unsympathetic audience, their chanting coming quicker now and intermingled with lewd insults and theatrical cackling. There were women there – _children_. Her doomed isolation filled her with a fear more dreadful than any she'd ever endured at the hands of Broomhead. These people had come to _see_ her die. Some had travelled from afar. Some were perhaps paupers, spending good money for a once-in-a-lifetime performance. And not one of them was going to help her, not even if she had all the time in the world to plead her case. She was condemned.

Constance's body became limp as she felt the ropes bind her wrists and ankles to the stake. A flame was thrown at the bottom of the pyre by a specially selected member of the crowd who seemed to treat the whole thing as a great honour, hurling the lighted splint with almost perverted relish. Within moments, Constance's vision was obscured by a shimmering curtain of rising heat. Her head hung low and she saw the flames already licking at her ankles, her eyes dry and stinging from the smoke. The sound of the crowd was obscured, drowning out as she was enveloped in her own private hell, the dancing tongues of flames flirting a little higher, reaching the flesh of her calves as she howled in agony, emitting animalistic sounds she had never thought herself capable of making. Everything around her began to fade as though her mind was shutting off, the pain swallowed her whole and she collapsed into darkness...

Darkness. Cold, familiar darkness.

Constance was hunched over on her hands and knees in the empty room, her fingertips timidly clawing at the stone as though it were some sort of sanctuary. The door had reappeared and was being thrust open, light from the reignited lantern coming nearer. She heard sound of Mistress Broomhead's heels as she strode nonchalantly across the room, and as Constance finally collapsed onto her side in exhaustion, her tutor's navy blue court shoes loomed into her vision, the lantern swinging just inches from Constance's face.

'Did the incantation work?'

Constance breathed quickly, a slight wheeze emanating from her throat which was grazed from her screams. Her tears grew cold as they clung to her lashes.

'I assume from your unbecoming whimper that it did,' said Broomhead, contemptuously, before turning and making her way briskly out of the room.

'I'll leave the door open for you,' she said, as though doing Constance a favour. 'I suggest you don't stay down there too long. We don't want the rats getting to you.'

Constance heard the smile in Broomhead's voice and listened until the footsteps faded into silence. From nowhere a voice was calling her name, a familiar, frightened voice, and all the time her was cheek growing numb against the cold, stone floor...

x

'Constance! _Constance! _For God's sake wake _up!_' Imogen took hold of both her colleague's shoulders and gave her a hard shake, panic-stricken by the perspiration that glistenedall over Constance's face. With a pained murmur, the potions mistress was roused into consciousness, her eyelids fluttering open as she took in her surroundings, eventually focussing on Imogen. Dragging herself dazedly into a sitting position, she raised a hand to push Imogen away, pulling her dressing gown about her shoulders and staggering slightly towards the window. At that moment, the door flew open and Amelia and Davina hastened in.

'What on _Earth's_ the matter?' Amelia glanced between the two women. Imogen sat helplessly on her knees beneath the bedclothes, her worried eyes all the while on Constance, who had flung open the window and was leaning the heels of her hands. Davina peered out from behind Amelia as though Constance were some kind of untamed, unpredictable beast who might turn on them at any second.

'She was – well, I think she was having a nightmare,' Imogen offered in hushed tones, hoping Constance wouldn't hear her diagnosis of the situation. She felt a wave of embarrassment as Amelia's eyes took in the row of pillows that were still lined between the two of them.

'Constance?' Amelia made her way to the potions mistress, raising a hand to place on her shoulder, before thinking better of it. 'Are you quite all right, Constance?'

'It's fine.' Constance's reply was resolute. '_I'm_ fine. Go back to bed.'

Imogen, suddenly aware that it was only just getting light outside, glanced down at her phone. Was it really only an hour since Constance had returned to the chamber?

Amelia's eyes met with Imogen's, and the headmistress seemed to silently implore that Imogen keep an eye on her, to which Imogen nodded back in the affirmative.

Voices could be heard from the corridor as Amelia and Davina left the room, and Imogen assumed with a feeling of foreboding that Broomhead and her strange little sidekick had been awoken by the commotion and were now being ushered back to bed amidst assurances that normality had resumed. Imogen snorted to herself. Just what Broomhead would have wanted. To know she had invaded her former charge's dreams yet again...

Constance remained where she was, her shoulders hunched, motionless. As Imogen shifted quietly into a semi-reclined position, her eyes were fixed on the far end of the bedstead, her thoughts sprinting through her mind. After several minutes' consideration, she decided that she could either do what Constance wanted, and pretend that none of this was happening; or she could do what she wanted, and comfort her.

'Are you going to tell me what that was about?'

Constance didn't move.

'Or are you going to ignore me like you always do when something's bothering you?'

Eventually, Constance turned, wrapping her dressing gown a little more tightly around her waist and crossing her arms to keep it in place. Her face was wan, the hollows of her cheeks sallow, and her eyes looked like they hadn't known sleep for days. As they cast themselves momentarily on Imogen's, the gym mistress felt a strange pang of intimacy, inexplicably sure that Constance was about toimpart some hitherto secret of her soul.

'You can tell me,' she offered, gently, when the silence dwindled for a little longer than she'd hoped. Constance sighed.

'No, Miss Drill, I cannot.'

'Oh, Constance,' Imogen briefly rubbed her face in exasperation, holding her hair back from her forehead. 'How do you ever expect to get close to anybody if you don't _talk_ about things?'

'That's just it,' the tears that welled in Constance's eyes betrayed the flicker of a smile that crossed her lips. 'I don't expect to. Least of all now.'

Imogen's head shot up, alarmed.

'What do you mean, "now"?'

'Oh, nothing,' Constance straightened herself up, looking thoughtfully into the middle distance. 'Nothing at all.'

'It didn't look like nothing, when you were thrashing around and wailing like a banshee, covered in sweat and –'

'Yes, _thank you_, Imogen,' Constance's voice rose. 'I do not need reminding of the indignity of my nightmare.'

'So it _was_ a nightmare?' Imogen was sure that Constance was loathing the triumphant look on her face.

'Yes, Imogen. A nightmare. A mere nightmare. A figment of the subconscious mind. Do you never suffer from them?'

'Of course I do, I –'

'Then kindly desist from being so intrigued by mine!' Constance pushed herself away from the window and stepped threateningly towards the gym mistress, who was dumbfounded. 'It may give you a perverse pleasure to think of rescuing me from my own demons, but I can assure you, Imogen, that I am quite capable of enduring a bad dream without the need to be counselled afterwards. Do I make myself clear?'

Imogen's heart beat faster and she was stunned, like a rabbit caught in headlights.

'_OK_,' she murmured, defensively. Constance stared her down for a moment, before turning and sweeping out of the room.

x

If Mildred had harboured any hope of sleep before Mistress DeSilva's visit, that hope had certainly been extinguished by the conversation that had ensued. "Shocked" didn't cover it. Now, what felt like hours later, she lay on her side as her eyes watched the creeping blueish haze of dawn, the pit of her stomach hollowed with anxiety.

So unexpected was the swift rap of knuckles at her bedroom door that Mildred started violently, springing immediately to her feet and opening it only to be ushered immediately back in by Miss Hardbroom, who wordlessly demanded her silence.

'Mildred,' urged her form mistress in a concerned whisper, when she had locked the door, 'Has Mistress DeSilva been to see you?'

'Yes, but – Miss, I don't understand – '

'Mildred Hubble, _will_ you keep your voice down!' Miss Hardbroom seized Mildred's wrists, gripping them a little too tightly and stooping so that her wild, panic-stricken eyes were level with her student's. 'It is _imperative_ that you do not speak a word of this to anyone. And I mean _anyone!_ Do you understand me?'

Mildred swallowed hard. 'Yes, Miss Hardbroom.'

After studying her for a few moments as if to satisfy herself that she did indeed have her pupil's word, Miss Hardbroom released her grasp and paced the room breathlessly, clearly trying to steady her nerves but for once struggling to do so. Mildred didn't know what to do with herself, and pulled her billowing nightdress around her knees, perching timidly on the end of the bed. After several minutes of pacing, Miss Hardbroom sat beside her, still lost in thought and breathing in a way Mildred had once been advised to by a doctor in the event of a panic attack. Miss Hardbroom then turned to her pupil, her gaze scrutinising.

'Are you all right, Mildred?'

Are _you_ all right, Miss?' asked Mildred, with a nervous smile.

'Do you know what you have to do?' Miss Hardbroom avoided the question, further fuelling Mildred's trepidation.

'I – think so...' she replied, hesitantly, the heat of intimidation rising within her.

'That's not good enough, girl – you _must_ know what you are doing!' Mildred was sure that her form mistress was about to burst into tears at any moment. But who could blame her? From what Mistress DeSilva had said, it sounded as though Miss Hardbroom had every reason to be afraid. And Mildred's unexpected involvement in this elaborate and potentially dangerous plot was a terrible responsibility to put on the shoulders of a teenager...

'Why me, Miss?' asked Mildred, sadly.

'Because, Mildred, you have an uncanny knack for getting very difficult things right.'

'But I get things wrong, too – why didn't you ask Ethel?'

Miss Hardbroom looked ather fingers in her lap, apparently considering how best to word her answer.

'Ethel would mix a potion like Bellatoxica correctly first time. There is no doubt about that. What concerns me is that she would be more inclined to... _you_ will be less likely to betray my confidence, Mildred. Don't think I haven't noticed how loyal you are to your friends. You keep their confidences and never speak about one to the next. Ethel, I fear, would see the responsibility as something she was entitled to, and therefore something worth boasting about. You, Mildred, will take it wholly more seriously.' She paused, putting a hand on her student's shoulder, her eyes intense and for the first time Mildred saw that her fear was slightly alleviated. 'This is the biggest challenge you have yet faced, Mildred Hubble. Do not let me down.'

Mildred took a deep, almost undetectable breath. She could do this.

'I promise I won't, Miss Hardbroom.'

Looking at her for several more moments, Miss Hardbroom got to her feet, taking a few paces towards the door and turning in the shadows to whisper her last instructions.

'Try and get some sleep, Mildred. I know it might seem impossible – but tomorrow will be a long night. _Do not_ communicate with me tomorrow for any reason other than formal class work; and even then, only within lesson periods - do you understand?'

'Yes, Miss.' Mildred shifted, nervously. 'Miss... where do I find the list of ingredients?'

'Flora and Fauna will help you. But remember –' She raised a cautioning finger. 'Not a word.'

Mildred was puzzled – Flora and Fauna? She had heard that somewhere before. For a moment her previous courage wavered. She hesitated to ask the inevitable question, but it was now or never.

'Miss – what if it goes wrong?'

Miss Hardbroom looked long and hard at the young witch, with the same impenetrable stare that Mildred had seen so many times before.

'Confidence and control, Mildred.'

And with that her form mistress folded her arms, and vanished. As Mildred lay back on her side and drew her knees up to her chest, she was sure she'd seen one last look of anguish flicker across her teacher's face, and could only hope that it was a trick of the light.

_**Again, thanks for reading so far – please be so kind as to review!**_


	6. Chapter 6

_*wonders if uploading this after two rather large glasses of Cava is such a good idea*_

_Greetings, Bellatoxites. Here's Chapter 6. I will upload Chapter 7 in the next couple of days. _

_Thanks for reading._

6

Throughout her Myths & Legends class, Mildred could not persuade her mind away from the formidable burden that weighed on it. A hot, knotted feeling contorted her stomach, and she tapped her foot perpetually under the desk, as though the action in itself were therapeutic. The Worst Witch in the school had never been so out of her depth, and as she cast her eyes along the row of friends to her right – Maud, Enid, Ruby, Jadu, all glancing between their handwritten notes and the blackboard, where Miss Cackle was gesticulating – Mildred envied their obliviousness to her predicament. She thought back to previous spells of acute apprehension: her Potions Part I, Sports Day, the run up to the Halloween extravaganza in her first year... Just now, she would have given _anything_ to only have to worry about one of them.

At the end of the lesson, Mildred quickly packed away her things, trying to avoid Maud's gaze. She had a lot to prepare for tonight – looking up the ingredients of Bellatoxica and making sure they were all things that were likely to be kept in the potions lab or the greenhouse, and seeking out any which weren't. Under normal circumstances, Mildred would have taken the challenge head on; but this time, a life depended upon it – upon _her_ getting it right.

As she happened to hear Bryony complaining to Harriet that she was parched, Mildred was reminded of the Lake Water Measured at Midnight that was required for the potion. There was nothing she could do about it until the very last minute, and her stomach plummeted as she considered the frantic pressure she would be under. Miss Hardbroom was relying on her, and the consequences of her getting this wrong would affect them all, however blissfully unaware the rest of the school was now...

'You seem in a bit of a rush, Millie. Can't wait to get to Jewellery Design?' said Maud, zipping up her pencil case.

'What? Oh... no. I thought I might use it as a free period. Miss Lamplighter said I could as I have to catch up on some Spells work that I didn't manage to get handed in last time.'

'Oh, right...' said Maud, looking puzzled.

'Plus my brooch is nearly done – it just has to be baked in the kiln. Not that it's great by anyone's standards – I rushed it, so the tip of the hat's crooked,' Mildred knew she was babbling as she heaved her satchel over her shoulder. 'Still, I suppose it looks a little more authentic.' Not waiting for a response, she barged out of the door, almost knocking Drusilla flying.

'Watch it, Hubble!' snapped the redhead, nastily. 'You're already skating on thin ice with Ethel after the other night. She's had a stinking cold since she fell in the lake, and if it interferes with any mock exams we're set, then you're for the high jump!'

'Oh, shut it, Drusilla,' Mildred said, irritably. 'You don't have to pretend you give a toss that Ethel's ill. We all know you're only friends with her because you think she's a passport to Weirdsister College.' Mildred surprised herself at her own candidness as she strode off towards the library, ignoring the admiring gasps and comments behind her as she went. Usually, a cross word with Ethel or Drusilla would play on her mind for the rest of the day, bugging her like a flea in her ear. She always _wanted_ to keep the peace. She'd have gladly been civil to both of them, were they to behave like mature young women towards Mildred and her friends. But today, of all days, she was not going to let either of them encroach on her thoughts. She _had_ to get this right. First stop: the library.

Mildred was unsurprised to see Fenella and Griselda at their usual table, with a heap of discarded books to one side and a pile yet to be scoured to the other. The pair had popped into her mind earlier that morning, when her bats had returned for the day and were hanging asleep from the picture rail. _Of course!_ she'd thought triumphantly, finally understanding Miss Hardbroom's "Flora and Fauna" reference. _The Addams Family!_ _The Siamese sisters..._ _Fenella and Griselda, joined at the hip_...

Mildred observed them for a moment from the doorway, both perched on the same chair, every now and then one of them shifting forcefully so that the other nearly slid off her half of the seat.

'You've got more of the seat than I have!'

'Your arse is taking over!'

'Are you saying I've got a big arse?'

'Put it this way, it could rival Cackle's...'

'I _hate_ you!'

'I hate _you!_'

'I'm not speaking to you after this.'

'Yeah? Well I'm not speaking to you _now!_'

Mildred cleared her throat.

Griselda threw a contemptuous look over her shoulder, and then softened on seeing Mildred.

'Aha! _She'll_ be able to do it!'

'She won't,' said Fenella, running a finger along a line of text in the book currently splayed on the table. 'Hardbroom has to do it. It says here that in order for a successful severance spell, the person who joined the victims in the first place must cast it.'

'Oh you're winding me _up!_' Griselda's face fell into her hands.

Mildred pulled up a seat at right angles to the girls, inclining her head and sliding the book a little closer so that they could all read it.

'No, no – look here – it says "_alternatively, Grendelbane can be brewed by a third party to aid the separation of the two victims The transition, however will take longer than that which follows the reversal spell"_.' Mildred looked at the two thoughtful faces in front of her, trying not to glance down at their conjoined hips. 'Worth a try though, eh?'

'_Anything's_ worth a try,' Fenalla said, sighing heavily. 'The dorm beds are small enough as it is – try sharing one with someone who snores like a pneumatic bloody drill.'

'So where are the ingredients for this... er...' Mildred scanned the page again. 'Grendelbane? Never even heard of it...'

'Oh, it's one of the Tenebrae Potions,' said Griselda, as she reached up and grabbed a dusty old volume from the pile that looked as though it might topple at any moment. 'Let's see – I'm sure it's here somewhere. Not,' she looked pointedly at Mildred, 'That we're supposed to know about this. And if HB ever asks, you think Grendelbane is a type of dragon, OK?'

Mildred watched as her friend scanned the contents page. Her heart swooped as she noticed _Bellatoxica_ about halfway down the page, and Mildred hoped that the excited relief hadn't shown in her face. So Bellatoxica was a Tenebrae Potion too... She _had_ to get hold of that volume, come hell or high water.

'Aha!' Griselda thumbed quickly through the pages. 'Six fifty-two, six fifty-four... six fifty-eight! Here we are – I _knew_ it! D'you think you can mix this, Mil? It'll have to be when HB's out of the potions lab, obviously – if she finds out, we'll be kissing goodbye to our Witches' Higher Certificates...'

Mildred steadied her breathing, barely taking in the list of ingredients and instructions laid out before her. She was mere _pages_ away from Bellatoxica, and she was desperate to look at it, to get her head around it, to at least have some idea of what she needed to do...

'Well?' Fenella was impatient.

'Er... of course!' said Mildred, brightly, getting to her feet and tucking the book under her arm.

'Uh uh uh!' Griselda sang, shaking her head and reaching to place a hand on the book. 'Are you in the fifth year, Mildred Hubble?'

'No...?'

'Then I'll take that, thank you very much. If you get caught swanning about with a book from the restricted section –'

'Oh come _on_, mate,' interjected Fenella, 'How else is she going to do this?'

'She'll have to write it down, just like we did before we were in the fifth year.'

Mildred's heart sank.

'For goodness _sake_, Griselda.' Fenella leant back as far as her welded hip would allow, massaging her brow, wearily. 'Are you secretly enjoying being so close to me?'

'Fenella.' Griselda's tone was authoritative. 'We've not suffered nearly five years in this place not to have some privileges. The restricted section is about as exciting as it gets. Mildred and co will have their turn next year. In the meantime,' she pulled the book forcefully from Mildred's grip. 'She can stay here and write it out, or we can simply wait for the end of the week, and HB will turn us back.'

Mildred blurted the words before her better judgement could stop her:

'If you let me take it, I'll let you into a secret.'

Her heart pounded in her chest. Both the girls turned their heads to her, their eyes narrowed with suspicious curiosity.

'Go on then,' bartered Griselda.

'Book first.' Mildred held out an open hand.

Griselda looked at Fenella, who nodded. As the book came towards Mildred and she went to take it, Griselda tightened her grasp, her eyes unblinkingly on Mildred's.

'What's the secret, Mil?' she dared.

Mildred racked her brains. If she didn't come up with something soon, she'd have dug herself into an inescapable rut. Fenella and Griselda were like terriers when it came to gossip – if any of the girls had some, they'd snap at her heels until they found out what it was. Mildred had looked up to the pair of them since her very first day, when they had shown her to her room and spooked her with the legends of Castle Overblow ; but she couldn't betray Miss Hardbroom's confidence. Mildred had been sworn to secrecy. Not only that, but Miss Hardbroom had given her reason for choosing Mildred as being that she couldn't trust Ethel, possibly _the_ most academically advanced girl in the school.

'We're waiting...' Fenella drummed her fingertips on the desk.

'Miss Drill might be leaving...' Mildred faltered, 'To go... to go and work at Serge's adventure centre.'

The girls released exasperated sighs.

'That was _ages_ ago, Mildred,' snapped Griselda. 'Last year, actually. And _everyone _knew about it at the time. In fact, it was _you_ who told _us_ you'd heard HB giving Drill a bollocking after she'd caught you muppets cutting some mean moves on the first day of term.'

Mildred chewed her lip, mustering a look of apology.

'You haven't even _got_ a secret, have you?'

'No...' Mildred replied, suddenly wishing she'd had the nerve to confide in them. She really could do with sharing this particular burden.

'Oh, have the damn book,' said Griselda, thrusting it into Mildred's palm. 'Just make sure you get it back here by the end of the day. You know who the Student Library Liaison Officer is this year, don't you?'

'No?'

The girls chorused their response as Mildred made for the door, complete with the requisite volume: 'Ethel flaming Hallow!'

x

'What time is it?' asked Mistress Broomhead, not looking up from her paperwork as Mistress DeSilva re entered the staffroom.

'Almost the end of morning break,' Eva walked over to the urn, taking Mistress Broomhead's cafétiere from her own oversized, snakeskin handbag and loading it with scoops of the finest Columbian blend of coffee that her employer was accustomed to. Eva despised the stuff – so deceptive in taste as opposed to smell. In its powdered form it smelt rich, like luxurious, dark chocolate. To her untrained palate, however, it reminded her of instant laced with poison... Poison... As she poured steaming water into the cafétiere, Eva placed the plunger on top to let it brew for a few minutes, and turned to face Mistress Broomhead. She regarded the older witch, engrossed as always in her work and paying little heed to anything but the dark thoughts that seemed to reign her mind. _What must it be like to be you?_ Eva wondered. _To be so cold and unloving... so unloved?_

Her eyes were drawn to the small mahogany cabinet behind Mistress Broomhead's seat, where she knew Miss Cackle kept a small selection of wines and liquors for special occasions. Her heart skipped a beat.

'Has it crossed your mind, Mistress,' said Eva, pushing the plunger down into the black liquid and watching the coffee grounds descend to the pit of the cafétiere, 'That Miss Cackle or one of her underlings might need to access the drinks cabinet before tonight?'

She heard Mistress Broomhead look up, turning her heard quickly towards the cabinet as though it might speak for itself.

'I hardly think that is likely,' came the crisp reply. 'I can't see any of the staff here being partial to a midweek tipple, can you?'

Eva set her jaw, pouring the coffee.

'Nevertheless, Mistress,' she ignored the milk jug, forcing a smile as she walked towards the table with the cup balancing on its saucer. 'I think perhaps, to avoid any potential disasters, I should look after it for the rest of the day. For safekeeping.'

Mistress Broomhead took a brooding sip of coffee, years of its consumption ingrained on her discoloured teeth.

'Think of the consequences,' Eva continued, cautious not to make more of an issue than necessary. 'Conium Maculatum is not something to leave lying around in a school, even if it _is_ out of bounds of the students...'

Mistress Broomhead held her gaze for a moment, and Eva's stomach lurched as she feared she had overstepped the mark.

After what felt like an eternity, Mistress Broomhead opened the cabinet and felt around in the darkness, producing a small phial of bloodlike liquid and handing it to her colleague.

'Very well,' she said in a low whisper, her eyes lacking humanity. 'But I warn you, Eva – do not let it out of your possession. Not even for a second.'

Eva smiled a cold smile that did not extend to her eyes, and nodded.

'Of course, Mistress Broomhead.'

xxx

_Sorry there's no HB in this one, gang... hence why I plan to upload 7 in the next couple of days. I miss her, too... :-( _

_*looks longingly at framed photo of HB between typewriter & gramophone and reaches out to trace the outline of her face...*_

_Ahem..._

_Please be so kind as to review!_


	7. Chapter 7

_Hello again, _

_This one turned out to be a lot harder to write than I thought it would – hence why it's taken longer to upload than I promised. Hope you're all still interested enough to keep up!_

**7**

A great advantage of being a teacher was that whenever one needed time to indulge in deep reflection, one could set a mock examination.

The downside, of course, was that too much thinking time could be unproductive, especially when the thinker was prone to intrusive thoughts. Which, during this particular episode of her life, Constance was.

It was the first lesson of the day, and the third years were respectively scraping together an essay entitled "The Intricate Properties of Pondweed". Under usual circumstances, the potions mistress would have embraced the prospect of an hour's uninterrupted peace. Today, however, she sat motionlessly at her desk with her fingers steeped, unable to stop her mind wandering back to an event she had, over the years, endeavoured to forget...

She had been sitting in the visitor's chair of Mistress Broomhead's office. The afternoon sun cast a stencil of the Georgian window across the desk, and the occasional voices of students late for lectures could be heard from the courtyard below. Broomhead padded about the room, deep in contemplation. She lit a cigarette which she smoked via a holder: a recent quirk that Constance supposed to be a misjudged attempt at vintage chic. Her tutor slid the small tin case open between her fingers and offered it to her pupil, who politely declined.

'They help you think,' Broomhead muttered as she took a drag of the cigarette, hissing through her teeth to draw the smoke deeply into her lungs. She was in a good mood, Constance observed, eyeing the older witch with caution as she meandered about the room. That was likely to mean that someone, somewhere, was going to suffer. Constance had been far too drained from her stake-burning experience to fret on someone else's behalf, having made an educated guess that due to her weakened physical state, she might for once be let off the hook. And as ashamed as she was of her relief at the expense of another's terror, Constance had the distinct feeling that she deserved a day off.

The cigarette case clicked shut, and Broomhead tossed it casually onto her desk. Constance watched her tutor's waistline sauntering menacingly close to her. She flinched as the bony knuckles glided their way gently down from her temple, across her cheekbone and to her jaw, where the cold fingers unfurled, curling beneath her chin and lifting her face so that she was forced to look upon the withering countenance of her mentor.

'You have done well, Constance,' she said, without her usual venom. Constance shivered inwardly. Broomhead rarely addressed her by her first name, and Constance couldn't decide whether she preferred it or not. 'The room has finally been put to good use. You, second only to me, are the Keeper. There must always be two Keepers of the Room of Curses. When I die, as I surely will before you, I will pass my authority on to someone I trust above all others. You will do the same in years to come.'

As the chilling grip released her, Constance let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. Broomhead walked around to her desk, taking her seat and removing a small package from the drawer, along with a leather-bound book which Constance recognised immediately as her tutor's Book of Shadows; her personal record of spells and incantations.

'This,' she said, passing the package to Constance 'Is the key to the room. Go on,' she gestured to Constance to unwrap the crisp, brown paper that surrounded a small gift box. She lifted the lid, confused to find only a silver lizard inside. She automatically assumed it to be a brooch, but on closer inspection it appeared to have nothing to fasten it to clothing. Her brow furrowed as she held it at eye level and studied it carefully. Its body was in the shape of an S, its feet splayed out at the ends of short legs. Constance turned it over in her hand, an unpleasant sensation in her stomach as she noticed the words inscribed on the underside.

'No ordinary key, Hardbroom. You will recognise those words as the incantation you formulated. You must keep it with you at all times, or you, as Keeper, will be destined to be destroyed by the room.' Constance's stomach lurched and she pressed the key to her belt, where it fastened itself with a flash of white light. 'And this,' Broomhead waved the book, 'Is invaluable. It contains the spell to pass your power as Keeper – along with the key – on to another witch. There is more you need to know about the room.' She rested her elbow on the table, her cigarette poised and emitting a ribbon of smoke as she took another drag. 'But don't worry about the details just yet. You've seen what it can do.' Her last words were laden with barbarism, and Constance shifted her line of vision so that she just missed locking her gaze with Broomhead's soulless eyes. _They exuded, _Constance had noted in the diary that she kept wrapped in an invisibility cloak under her bed,_ an inhuman lack of empathy for all living creatures: a demonic love for the macabre, for misery and humiliation.._.

'Now,' Broomhead crushed the cigarette in her ashtray and turned to her register, running a finger down the list of names. Constance saw her give a self-satisfied smirk as her talon stopped at a particular name. 'Stella Phoenix. Yes... Go and fetch her from the Common Room, will you?'

x

As Constance made her way along the vast main corridor of the college, her eyes looked through everyone who passed her, so accustomed was she to distance they kept from her. Students whispered amongst themselves on her approach whilst academics failed to acknowledge her, walking so close to the opposite wall that their robes caught against its grainy surface. Constance let up a silent prayer: there wasn't a worse member of her year group that Broomhead could have asked her to summon. Stella was the ringleader of the "it" witches; one of the popular girls who attended college to shirk, meet boys and drink until they had to have the alcohol surgically drained. She was the one the young wizards of Sorceric Training College compared lewd notes about; the one whose money, rather than brains, would buy her future; and the one who, above all others, outlawed Constance for her proximity to Mistress Broomhead.

The usual scenario was played out as Constance stepped into the Common Room. Heads turned, conversations fizzled out, anticipation hung in the air. The room smelt as it always did, of machine coffee and vinegar, and from somewhere came the upbeat melody of a pop song. Constance spotted Stella immediately, perched on the corner of a table and wearing a skirt that desired at least another four inches in length, her jaw rotating vulgarly as she champed on bubble gum. Her gang of girls surrounded her as always, each trying to imitate her carefree stance, but none able to pull it off quite as effortlessly as their infamous leader.

Stella's head turned quickly as every pair of eyes watched Constance approach her. Sliding from the table, she shook the mass of highlighted, shoulder-length curls with one swift movement, and sashayed over to Constance. She was shorter than the trainee potions mistress: everyone was, and she stood before her now in a coquettish façade, her doe-eyes peering up from under thick lashes.

'Well, well! What have we here girls?' she took a further step forward, moving her face so that her glossy peach lips almost met the mulberry ones of her classmate, altering her tone to a sultry whisper: 'Broomhead's bitch.'

There were squeals of laughter from the girls. Constance remained composed, ignoring the sickly scents of bubblegum and flowery perfume.

'Mistress Broomhead wishes to see you in her office.'

'_Ooh!_' Stella turned to her girls with mock excitement and they gasped, theatrically. '_Does_ she, now? And what does she want to do to me, Constance? Give me a good seeing to?' she bent over, turning round so that her tightly clad behind waved in Constance's direction and slapped it repeatedly, exaggerating yelps of enjoyment. The rest of the girls erupted into raucous laughter, some turning their backs and wrapping their arms around their own waists as though in a passionate embrace, others crying out Mistress Broomhead's name and making crude, Sapphic gestures. All the while the other occupants of the Common Room observed the spectacle in astounded silence.

Constance bit the inside of her cheek. She'd been through this before. If she chose not to react for long enough, the girls would get bored, and eventually Stella would feel unnerved by her lack of retaliation and give up. A short while later, Constance's prediction proved correct, and Stella turned to face her once again. Despite her undeniable – if cheap – beauty, Stella had often reminded Constance of a Jack Russell: always on the defensive and squaring up for a fight, however unfazed her opponent.

'Well?' Stella eyed Constance, her hands on her hips. 'What are we waiting for?'

As they turned to leave the room, there were cheers and whoops as Stella did something – Constance knew not what – behind Constance's back. A noise reminiscent of wailing apes continued from within as Stella clicked the door shut behind them.

'So what does she want?' she hissed, as Constance turned to make her way towards the Balefire Wing. Constance said nothing, hearing the quick steps hastening to keep up with her. What was she supposed to say? _'You're about to be thrust into a room where your worst fear will come true, and if you're lucky you may emerge with at least some fragments of your sanity intact'?_

'Constance? I said _what does she want?_' The concern rose in her classmate's voice, and Constance's eyes darted to the Heavens yet again.

'It's probably about extra potions, or something...' she mumbled, inaudibly.

'_What?_'

At that moment they rounded the corner and Constance rapped on Mistress Broomhead's door, for the first time in her life relieved to be there. Broomhead could take over the Q&A session now.

The door opened almost instantaneously, as if their mentor had been waiting on the other side of it.

'Ah. Phoenix. Good of you to drop by. Do take a seat.'

Stella didn't glance back at Constance as she wandered into the room, looking around it like she'd never been there before. Constance, hovering in the doorway, waited for Mistress Broomhead to excuse her.

'No, Hardbroom – close the door. I need you here for a moment.'

Constance's blood pressure surged as a thought crossed her mind. _Surely she doesn't expect me to do it_...

'Now. Phoenix.' Mistress Broomhead sat down and flicked through some notes she had laid out before her, peering through her half-moon spectacles. 'I understand your attendance record leaves much to be desired. This is clearly reflected in your grades. You do realise, Stella, that an "E" in Secondary Spells is unacceptable?' Mistress Broomhead became more agitated as she spoke. 'In fact, I can't think of a single magical institution in the land who would take you on with such an appalling collection of results. And Mistress Ostara tells me your attitude in your Secondary Ancient Runes classes is _abysmal_.'

Constance kept her eyes on Stella's back, the blonde curls sitting motionlessly on her shoulders.

'You came here, Stella,' continued Broomhead, 'From one of the best witch academies in the country and, I believe, are a member of one of the most prestigious magical families. Therefore this time I am not going to suspend you. Merely I am going to give you a short, sharp shock.' Here she glanced at Constance, who had an unpleasant flashback to her time in the Room of Curses accompanied by an intense need to vomit. 'Constance – would you do the honours, please? Phoenix – follow Hardbroom.'

Constance opened the door, avoiding eye contact with Stella and sensing her bewilderment as she brushed past on her way out.

'Where are we going?' Stella asked, alarmed as they descended into the lower mezzanine of the building and beyond the realms of College civilization, to a place that had been outside of Stella's vague knowledge of the building. They reached the top of the spiral steps that led to the dungeon, and Constance heard Stella's kitten heels come to an abrupt halt as she descended the first few.

'No,' she said in an outraged laugh. 'I'm not going down there!'

Whatever Stella had done to her before – from the time she had stuck a note on her back in class saying "I Heart Broomhead" to the time she had sabotaged Constance's cauldron, basting the inside of it with unidentified animal blood – Constance could not help but take pity on her. She really had no idea what was coming.

'You _have_ to,' Constance whispered. 'Mistress Broomhead's instructions.'

Stella took a few brisk steps towards her, her shoulders hunched resolutely. 'No, I won't.' she hissed. 'I'm not going into the dungeon because some old crone tells me I should!'

Constance felt helpless. She couldn't force her. But to think of the consequences... Her mind flashed back again to the horrific events she had endured in the room herself. She couldn't go through it again - she simply couldn't. And if she went against Mistress Broomhead's wishes, she might not come out alive next time. Besides, perhaps forcing someone else to go through a similar ordeal might get the word out that Broomhead really did need to be stopped…

'Fine,' Constance said. 'But you can explain to Mistress Broomhead why you decided not to carry out her punishment.' And, as Stella turned to make her way back into the College, successfully lulled into a false sense of security, Constance raced up behind her and grabbed her in the same way that Mistress Broomhead had herself, with an arm tightly around her front so that both Stella's arms were restrained. As she attempted to scream, Constance clasped a hand over her the girl's mouth.

It was more than a slight struggle to get Stella down the steps and along the corridor of the dungeon. She fought and grunted, biting Constance's hand and drenching her palm in saliva. The door to the Room of Curses was closed, and Constance fumbled on her belt and seized the lizard she had magically attached to it, pressing it firmly to the keyhole as a silver light glowed around it and the door flew open… The wave of nausea swept through her once more, and she stopped, catching her breath, summoning up enough strength to do what she had to do.

'I'm sorry, Stella,' she whispered into the echoing space. 'It won't be for long, I promise.'

And with that, she thrust the young witch into the blackness of the room, quickly casting the incantation so that the door slammed shut.

'Constance? Don't leave me in here! Constance! _Please! _I'm sorry, I'm so_ sorry_ – _please_ Constance, you have to help me, I'll do _anything_…'

She heard a hideous scream, and Constance's flesh crawled as she slid down the wall and sat with her face in her hands, realizing that Stella was probably feeling for the now invisible door. Constance's tears came at once, her sobs echoing in the empty space of the dungeon, intermingled with the terrified pleas that emanated from within the room...

After what seemed like an eternity, the wailing stopped. Constance lifted her head. The door reappeared and fell open, and she got to her feet, moving cautiously in and guided only by the shaft of light from the stairway. Stella was lying on the floor in the same prostrate position Constance had expected to find her. She hauled her to her feet, feeling the stickiness of the young woman's tear-soaked cheeks, blackened by her mascara. The once ultra-confident it-girl was a quivering mass, her nerves shot to nothingness and her sanity shattered. She had clung to Constance like a child to her mother, her face contorted by unspoken memories as she trembled, sobs catching in her throat. Constance rocked her, holding her face close against her chest and whispering useless words of comfort…

Two weeks later, Stella's lifeless body had been found face down in a pool of blood in the courtyard, beneath the Balefire clock tower from which she had hurled herself.

x

'Miss?' The word came in the tri-syllable, questioning tone of a child.

Constance shook the cobwebs of thought from her mind, aware of the hopeful voice of a student calling her name. She looked up to see Clarice beaming at her, her crimped ginger bunches swaying slightly as she glanced at Sybil, who was urging her to continue.

'Miss – can we finish now? It's lunch break.'

'Er… yes,' Constance said, the sea of expectant faces coming into view. Never before had she been so relieved to see the girls, who exchanged questioning glances as they placed their exam papers on her desk and filed quietly out of the room. One of the best year groups she had ever taught… one of the most well behaved. And as the door closed after Sybil Hallow, Constance could not help but wonder if that might be the last lesson she ever taught them.

xxx

_**As usual, thanks for reading, and please do review!**_


	8. Chapter 8

_Hello all, here's Chapter 8. Thank you for your kind patience, and a BIG thank you to those who take the time to review. I love you – like, I really do! _

_As it's getting a little intense and I don't want to drag out what's coming (it might hurt a bit...), Chapter 9 will be with you tomorrow. _

8

Amelia sank a fork into a towering slice of strawberry cheesecake, unable to ignore the fact that her treat of choice did not harbour its usual appeal. She had been chewing the same mouthful for at least thirty seconds and hadn't tasted a crumb of it.

Something was going on in the school. She didn't know what; but she didn't like it one bit.

Following an unexpected and rather unsettling exchange with Mistress Broomhead during the previous lesson, Amelia had suggested she and the other teachers – except Constance – adjourn to Cosie's for lunch. Not that she knew what she was going to say to them, or what she expected them to say to her. Indeed, without her right-hand woman to turn to for guidance, Amelia felt disconcertingly vulnerable. Of course, she was Headmistress of the school and had been for longer than she cared to remember; but since Constance had worked for her, Amelia had come to see her deputy as the unwritten commander of the establishment. Constance was, after all, the most learned witch she knew. She had all the answers, an inspirational grasp of common sense and, whilst she inspired fear and demanded respect, she offered them all unrelenting protection against the forces of evil that were inevitably encountered as part of a magical existence.

The cafe's quaint doorbell tinkled to announce the arrival of customers, and Amelia looked up to see Imogen and Davina bustling in from the rain. Davina paused to shake her umbrella in the doorway as Mrs Cosie hastened over with her usual Irish welcome, offering to hang Imogen's waterproof jacket somewhere to dry off.

'Davina told me,' Imogen's voice was grim as she sidled into a chair opposite the headmistress. 'So, when exactly _is_ Witching Hour?'

'Technically, from about eleven,' Amelia replied, bypassing the usual pleasantries.

'And I take it I'm not to be present?' Imogen leant back in her seat, folding her arms in a stance that reminded the headmistress of a defiant teenager.

'No, Imogen. Mistress Broomhead has asked that you do not attend.' Amelia set her fork down, surveying her gym mistress over the top of her glasses. 'Try not to take it too personally, dear – she's never been a fan of non-magical people mixing with witches. The same rule would apply to anyone else.'

Imogen quirked her eyebrows as if the explanation wasn't quite satisfactory.

'And the purpose of this little soiree...?'

Amelia shrugged as the tea arrived, which Davina proceeded to pour.

'Search me,' said the headmistress. 'She merely requested the company of the magical staff at Witching Hour tonight in the staffroom. Mentioned something about toasting her thanks to our hospitality over the past couple of days, and bidding a final goodbye to Constance.' Amelia shook her head, her look of puzzlement suggesting that something was amiss. 'But – well, I don't suppose it really meant anything...'

'What?' Davina asked, sliding cups of tea across the small circular table to her colleagues and dropping a couple of sugar crystals into her own.

'It was strange... she was almost... _friendly_. It didn't suit her at all!' Amelia let out an involuntary laugh at her own words, although she hadn't intended to amuse. In all honestly she had been thoroughly wrong-footed by it.

'Perhaps she wants bygones to be bygones with Constance,' said Davina, always seeing the best in people.

Amelia looked to Imogen, who was gazing somewhere on the table as if deep in tormented thought. Something occurred to the headmistress.

'Imogen - don't think about putting in an appearance, will you?'

She knew there was more to it than Imogen's indignation at not being invited. She knew how attached to Constance the gym mistress had become since the Serge episode. And although Constance was not one to either confide her feelings or gossip unkindly behind someone's back (generally preferring the more direct approach of executing her criticisms face to face), Amelia had detected that Imogen's affections were perhaps not reciprocated, or – worse still – rather irksome to the potions mistress. And if things were going to come to a relatively harmonious conclusion with Mistress Broomhead, the last thing any of them needed was Imogen turning up in heroic protest.

'Imogen – do you hear me?'

'_Yes_,' said Imogen, irritably.

Davina blew on her tea to cool it, raising her eyebrows to the headmistress. _You can only do so much,_ she seemed to say.

The remainder of the lunch hour passed in uneasy silence.

x

Mildred could have kicked herself. Since her exchange with Fenella and Griselda in the library, she'd doubled her potion-making workload on what was already turning out to be the most stressful day of her life.

Under usual circumstances, she would have abandoned the Grendelbane and let the girls sweat it out for a day or two more; but she had a feeling the two of them might come in very useful later in the evening, and she'd got the impression from Miss Hardbroom's vague Flora and Fauna reference that she might appreciate their presence, too. Once the deed had been done, there would be no need for secrecy. Of course, Miss Hardbroom _could_ have separated the girls herself if she really did need them; but given the circumstances, going against her initial threat of leaving them joined at the hip for the rest of the week would have aroused far too much suspicion. And, of course, their punishment had taken place before she knew of Broomhead's full intentions...

The silver lining to today's particular cloud was that most of the ingredients required for Bellatoxica were readily available in the potions lab, and during her lesson there in the afternoon, when Miss Hardbroom had strategically set them the task of brewing any one of the basic potions learned thus far, Mildred had taken the opportunity presented to her and checked the stock levels. Perhaps Miss Hardbroom had deliberately put in an order to Hags & Horrocks the previous day: there seemed to be no end of treefrog gallstones, platinum powder and glowworm bulbs available. The only things she'd had to gather from outside the school were Calluna vulgaris and of course the lakewater measured at midnight, which she couldn't do anything about until the very last second. However she could, according to the instructions, make up the rest of the potion and add the water at the very last minute – something which had relieved at least some of the burden from her mind. She would then have to take it with her and hope she didn't have a mishap with her broom: leaving the rest of the potion anywhere in the school would be far too dangerous, should it fall into the wrong hands...

She had the evening planned out in her mind. She would make her way down to the potions lab just after 10.00 pm, which was an hour after lights out, and about the same time as the staff would retire to bed. She would set to work on preparing the Bellatoxica first, and make up the Grendelbane (which was decidedly easier to brew) as she went along. Mildred was as in control as she could be, but she was by no means out of the woods. Potion making was not a simple task of chucking in a handful of this and a pinch of that. Ingredients had to be measured with absolute accuracy, added at precisely the right time and mixed in the right rotation and at the correct pace – as well as whatever else was required for a particular ingredient; and that depended entirely on the potion being brewed. To say anything could go wrong was an understatement. Mildred had never forgotten one of the first lessons she learnt from Miss Hardbroom: "_Potion making is a complicated and exacting science that can be achieved by only the most competent of witches. It is _not_ akin to throwing flour, sugar, eggs and butter together and coming up with a jam sponge!_"

That particular statement, whilst recurrently in her thoughts as her one of her first impressions of Miss Hardbroom, had never seemed truer than it did now...

Scribbling the last of her notes from the illegally-borrowed potions book, Mildred slid the recipe into her satchel and made for the library.

x

Constance swept through the corridors on her rounds, spot-checking the odd room and holding the lantern up to illuminate the sleeping girl inside. She'd always been able to tell whether they were asleep or not. A sleeping girl was relaxed and you could hear her breathing. An imitator was tense, eyelids quivering despite her best efforts and no breath was to be heard.

She never knocked, and she never closed the door with anything less than a purposeful click that would probably have woken genuine sleepers anyway. Lights out had always been Constance's least favourite part of the job. At least in the classroom the girls interacted with her – however reservedly. During a good lesson her classroom felt alive with enthusiasm for her subject, and she adored the euphoric feeling that accompanied sparking their interest in her passion. But at lights out, Constance felt as though she were encroaching on their private space. Her mind often harked back to her nightly fear of the slowing footsteps outside her room at Witch Training College, the creaking of the door, the robed figure loitering in the darkness and climbing into the bed beside her, sliding the bony fingers over Constance's midriff... She couldn't bear to think that it had even remotely crossed any of the girls' minds that she had such sinister intentions. Somehow, her brisk approach had always seemed the best way to get the burdensome chore over and done with as quickly as possible.

As she reached the far corner of the fourth year corridor, Constance avoided Mildred Hubble's room. She was about to turn to make her way back towards her chambers to while away the lengthy minutes until Witching Hour, when she heard the door open tentatively and turned to see Mildred peering out at her in the darkness. True to her word, Mildred didn't speak to her potions mistress, and hadn't done so all day: and now, she merely gave a small smile and seemed to will Constance good luck. Constance nodded vaguely back, silently reciting an ancient Wiccan prayer and hoping that the deities would bless her pupil's mission.

x

Imogen was curled up on her side under the covers, scanning the words of a dog-eared novel but not actually reading them. She'd re-read the same paragraph seven times, each time unable to stop her mind wandering over unanswered questions...

She was wholly uncomfortable with the prospect of a late-night, exclusively magical rendezvous. During the evenings, Imogen was the only non-witch in the school, what with Frank Blossom and Maria Tapioca both living in the village. A meeting at Witching Hour sounded ominous in itself, before one even took into the equation that _Hecketty Broomhead_, of all people, had instigated it. And then there was her strange, unfathomable little companion, about whom Imogen had not made up her mind. Amelia and the others may have been lulled into security by her mesmeric aura, but Imogen wasn't so sure. They barely knew her at all - what if she was as bad as Broomhead, or even worse? What if, between them, they used their dark powers to entrance the staff, causing them to pose a threat to the rest of the school? What if they persuaded them to rid the place of their only non-witch? What if...

_Come on Imogen, you're being stupid now_, she scolded herself, silently.

But she had to admit, it wasn't the first time she'd felt vulnerable at her term-time home. Granted, the witches had all seemed personable enough when she'd first taken the job (with the exception of Constance, whom Amelia had pre-warned her had a tendency _"...to take a little longer to warm to people"_). The rest of the staff, and certainly the girls, had been more than welcoming. And of course, they were well equipped to protect her should the situation arise; but equally, the result if they renounced their allegiance to their gym mistress could be deadly: even the youngest girls had the power to destroy a mere mortal...

The door opened and Imogen's eyes followed Constance around the room, the witch being her usual taciturn self. She bustled about unnecessarily, tidying discarded books and straightening furniture that didn't look as though it needed attention. Neither one greeted the other, and the usual tenseness hung in the air, like that between a couple after an argument.

Trying again to focus on her novel, Imogen soon gave up with a heavy sigh. She slid from beneath the bedclothes and made her way over to Constance, who had switched to re-arranging things in the top drawer of her dressing table. The gym mistress stood behind her for a moment, hoping she would turn around, aware that Constance knew she was there.

'Constance –' she faltered. 'Constance, please – talk to me,' The quiver in her voice seemed to enlist something close to concern in the potions mistress, and Constance turned quickly, her eyes expectant as Imogen struggled to find the words to continue.

'I – I just...' she shrugged, shaking her head resignedly. She'd rehearsed words of confrontation in her mind before Constance had returned, but she hadn't planned to be dumbstruck, despite how it seemed to be second nature to her in the company of Constance Hardbroom.

'I'm frightened,' she whispered, avoiding eye contact. 'I'm frightened. Broomhead, your dream... this meeting... I _know_ there's something going on. And I don't expect you to tell me what it is,' she gestured, uselessly. 'But I'm frightened for myself, as well as you.'

Constance's eyes betrayed a flicker of her own anguish.

'You think my being the only non-witch on the staff is a nuisance. But think how it can be for _me_ – at times like this. I'm on my own, Constance.'

'Miss Drill –'

'No, you don't understand,' Imogen put a hand to her furrowed brow, massaging her eyes. 'You can protect yourselves. I can't.'

'Imogen,' Constance's tone was softer, and she rested her hands on Imogen's arms, waiting for the blue eyes to meet her own. 'Do you trust me?'

'Yes...' Imogen's answer was uncertain. Constance closed her eyes with a brief look of exasperation. 'Yes. I mean – _yes_,' Imogen blurted. 'With my life. I trust you with my life.'

'In which case, you must trust me when I say that you _must_ stay here tonight.'

'But what if Broomhead...' Imogen's shoulders dropped and her eyes filled with tears. 'What if she does something to make you turn against me?'

Constance took Imogen's face between her hands, her voice barely above a whisper.

'_Nothing_ like that is going to happen,' she said, with complete sincerity in her eyes. 'Do you understand?'

Imogen took a deep breath, nodding.

'You must know that I would never let any harm come to you, Imogen.'

Imogen's heart soared. They were only some of the words she'd dreamed of hearing from the potions mistress's lips, and under any other circumstances she'd have considered that day to be the best of her life so far. But the unnerving feeling that refused to go away only helped to fuel her fear that Broomhead's liaison was not the peace offering she had portrayed it to be.

'I know...' she replied eventually, 'I know you wouldn't intentionally but...'

'But?'

Imogen sighed.

'It's not just Broomhead, is it? I'm not sure I trust Mistress DeSilva.'

Constance's gaze drifted thoughtfully beyond the gym mistress, and she seemed to consider something before she spoke.

'You _must_ trust her. I do. So must you.'

Imogen studied the dark eyes for several moments. Ordinarily, Constance's resolve was indestructible. Never one to make a statement unless she knew it was entirely true, you could always be confident that the witch knew what she was talking about. So it broke Imogen's heart as, for the first time, she detected something close to uncertainty in Constance's expression.

'If you say so...' Imogen closed her eyes in resignation, sighing sadly and wandering back towards the bed.

When she turned around, Constance had disappeared.


	9. Chapter 9

OK folks, don't hit me for this one...

9

Mildred used the pipette to drip the lakewater, one drop at a time, into the cauldron. She was desperate to check the time at the back of the room, but she couldn't afford a mistake now. She had come this far, and a single drop too many would render the potion lethal.

As the final drop touched down, the cauldron flashed a sinister shade of blood red, hissing like a casket of serpents. Gradually, the simmering petered out, and Mildred peered into the cauldron. As with many of the more advanced potions, there was only a small amount at the very bottom - barely enough to cover its base. Mildred sighed at the irony of how little there was to show for her stress levels, and wondered why she had ever worried about making a potion before this one. They all seemed so _easy _now... Taking a fresh pipette, she measured the liquid into the phial.

_So this is Bellatoxica_, Mildred pondered, bringing the phial up to eye-level and surveying the opaque garnet-coloured liquid inside. _At least, I hope for all our sakes it is_...

She glanced up at the clock. Ten minutes past midnight. She'd done fairly well considering she'd been to the lake and back - almost coming a cropper under a wayward yew branch - before putting the finishing touches the potion. She loomed over the other cauldron where the sage-green Grendelbane was bubbling away nicely. When Mistress DeSilva had collected the Bellatoxica, Mildred would deliver the Grendelbane to Fenny and Gris.

All she had to do now was wait, and pray that nothing had gone wrong in the interim...

x

Amelia had been pleasantly surprised.

So far, the evening had passed amicably. Broomhead had raised a toast to Miss Cackle and the Academy and was clearly on countdown to retirement, having spent most of the past hour relating tedious anecdotes of her own college days. She'd had Davina's rapt attention, the chanting mistress clearly having altered her opinion of the inspector. Amelia inferred from Mistress DeSilva's expression that she knew the tales by heart, but smiled politely at certain intervals, otherwise gazing pensively into her wine. And Constance, whilst clearly not at complete ease in her former tutor's company, had listened in earnest and even dropped in the odd witty remark about some of their shared Witch Training College days. Perhaps, Amelia considered as she discretely eyed her deputy nodding periodically throughout Broomhead's monologue, they had not been quite so bad after all. Constance had never spoken of her past, something everyone had assumed to be an indication of scandal; but maybe it simply was that her schooling had been harsh, as so many witch schools had been in decades gone by. A case in point, Cackle's certainly wasn't Murdoch McFee's Adventure Centre; there was hard work to be done and grades to be achieved. But maybe Constance's reaction to Broomhead, which was undeniably one of fear, would be the way Mildred Hubble would react to Constance in years to come...

'Excuse me for a moment,' Eva rose from her seat, smiling cordially as she let herself out of the staffroom. Mistress Broomhead paid her no attention as she continued bragging about the most prestigious witches she had ever taught, those who came from Transylvanian aristocracy and had gone on – under her tutelage, of course – to become undoubtedly the most powerful witches of all time...

Amelia couldn't help but wonder if this was her way of having a little dig at Constance. _Good old HB_, thought Amelia, proudly. _Even if it is, she doesn't rise to it_.

x

Mildred heard the door open slightly, and turned to see the petite figure of Mistress DeSilva entering the potion lab, closing it softly behind her.

'Well done, Mildred,' she whispered, immediately spotting the Bellatoxica in the candlelight. 'Let me see.'

Mildred had been clasping the phial between her fingers as though it were the most precious thing in the world. She handed it carefully to Eva, all the while watching the young woman's eyes for any hint of emotion. Eva picked up the candle, holding it behind the phial to inspect the concoction.

'Well it _looks_ right...' she said. Her eyes warmed on noticing the anxiety in Mildred's expression. 'I'm sure it will be fine. You followed the instructions to the letter?'

Mildred nodded, her stomach contorting. Yes, she had; but there was no way back now: no way of double, or better still _triple_ checking for mistakes... She was hit by a wave of nausea as Eva slipped the phial out of sight into her pocket, handing Mildred another in its place.

'Now – you must destroy this one, Mildred,' she put a hand on Mildred's shoulder, her accent more pronounced with the urgency in her voice. 'Do it tonight. And do not, under any circumstances, come into contact with any of the contents.'

Mildred nodded again, regarding the almost identical phial though cautious eyes as though she were handling a deadly creature, and she wrapped it in a crumpled tissue, burying it deep inside the pocket of her satchel. Eva was already making her way to the door where she stopped, turning back into the room.

'Thank you, Mildred,' she whispered, her eyes glinting with an almost maternal smile.

'Miss –' Mildred spoke for the first time, just as Eva was about to close the door between them. The young woman stopped, seemingly afraid of what she knew Mildred was going to ask.

'When will I know if it's worked?'

Eva visibly stiffened.

'We won't know, Mildred. None of us will know. Not for a while, anyway.'

And with that, the door was closed and Mildred remained, with only her tumultuous apprehension and flickering candlelight for company.

x

Eva's hand shook slightly as she poured the wine. Her back was turned to the rest of the staff, who were listening to Mistress Broomhead banging on about her close friendship with the Grand Wizard. Eva had to refrain from snorting in contempt. The man couldn't _stand_ her – he'd as good as told Hecketty to her face; but Broomhead had always been thick-skinned: certainly not one to take an unsubtle hint. With one swift movement, Eva slipped the Bellatoxica, concealed in her palm, into one of the glasses and set it slightly apart from the rest. She took a breath and turned to the rest of the room, her eyes sweeping Constance's as she held the silver tray before her.

'More wine, ladies...'

Constance didn't make eye contact with her as the drinks were handed out.

x

Mildred rapped at the door.

'Who is it?'

'It's Millie – let me in, I've got your potion.'

'_Awesome!_' The door was unlatched from the inside, and Fenella and Griselda, as one, peered out into the corridor.

'You don't mind if we don't invite you in, do you, Mil?' said Griselda, snatching the Grendelbane from her. 'Only we don't know how this might end up. We're guessing – seeing as we're sharing the same skirt, that it we might look a bit... well...'

'Underdressed.' Fenella finished.

'Oh yeah, whatever...' Mildred said, tetchily, her thoughts still distracted by the events that she knew would be unravelling as they spoke.

She watched the door close, listening intently in the direction of the staffroom as Fenella and Griselda argued over who was having too much – or not enough – of the Grendelbane. It all seemed so comparatively trivial to Mildred... At this moment, whether or not the Grendelbane worked was the least of her worries.

'Right – here goes.'

After a few moments, there was a triumphant cry from inside the room and the door was opened to reveal the newly separated Fenella and Griselda both stepping out of the oversized shirt and grinning at each other.

'Nice one, Mil! It didn't even hurt!' Griselda beamed as she tripped over the skirt elastic.

'Are you OK?' asked Fenella, grabbing Griselda before she fell face-first into the wardrobe.

Mildred realised she didn't look as triumphant as she perhaps should on successfully formulating a rare potion.

'Yeah – I'm fine. Look, I'm really glad it worked. But I'm knackered. Got to get to bed...'

She hastily closed the door behind her, and after exchanging a puzzled glance, Fenella and Griselda celebrated their freedom by pressing the play button on their battery-powered tape recorder and dancing the Macarena.

x

'I must say I'm quite envious,' Davina gazed wistfully into nowhere. 'I'm so looking forward to my retirement – Inner Mongolia, Japan, Tibet... it'll be wonderful!'

Broomhead turned the conversation immediately back to herself, as was her usual trick – or so Amelia had noticed.

'_I_ shall be writing my book, _Witch Training for the Twenty-First Century_. Then I plan to spend a year or so in the company of the Transylvanian aristocracy, and if I get time I might form my own Coven. I've always fancied myself as an Elder...'

'You _must_ come back and see us!' Davina blurted, her smile fading as she took in the stony glares of her colleagues.

As the conversation petered out, everyone seemed momentarily lost in their own thoughts and Amelia wondered if it might be an opportune time to wrap up proceedings. She observed Broomhead as she sipped her wine in silence, still not wholly satisfied as to the woman's true nature. But that was of little importance now. In a few short hours, it would be morning, and Broomhead would be gone forever. Amelia had to admit she was rather looking forward to working with the delightful Mistress DeSilva. She looked to Constance, whose expression was as unreadable as always. The headmistress was pleased on her deputy's behalf – pleased that whatever had gone between them in the past, Davina had perhaps been right – this was indeed Mistress Broomhead's way of burying the hatchet.

'It won't hurt for long, Constance.'

In a moment of incomprehension, Amelia's eyes trailed back to Mistress Broomhead whose sudden words had seemed out of place with the ambience of the evening so far. She was gazing blankly at her former student, waiting for a reaction.

'I'm sorry, Mistress?' Constance twisted the stem of her glass between her fingertips, raising her eyes like she'd barely noticed the weight of the statement.

'The _pain_. When the _poison_ takes effect.' Broomhead spoke irritably, as though explaining something very simple to a child, and Amelia was flooded with terror as the callous tone echoed in her mind. Amelia looked again to Constance, who was already trembling, her eyes wide and horrified on her glass. Short, strangled gasps emanated from her constricting throat and Amelia kicked her own chair out from beneath her, dropping to her knees at the deputy's side and seizing the glass she had been drinking from. Convulsive shuddering took over Constance's body, perspiration erupting from every pore as her muscles went into spasm. Amelia sniffed the empty glass which smelt only of fruit and alcohol.

'_What have you done!_' she roared, disturbed to see Mistress DeSilva, expressionless, staring down at the table with her hands clasped beneath her chin. Davina began to scream. Broomhead rose from her seat, gathering her things.

'Oh, don't worry,' she said, conversationally. 'Despite the theatrics, it will look like a heart attack. No disgrace will be brought upon the Academy.'

Constance gripped Amelia's hand so tightly that her nails almost drew the headmistress's blood, her terrified eyes pleading with Amelia who gaped in desperate helplessness. '_Constance!_' she cried, her voice wild with fear. '_There has to be something we can do! A spell – a potion! Just tell me what I need to do!_'

'I think you'll find there's very little that can be done.' said Broomhead, speaking loudly over Davina's continued wails and swinging her cloak about her shoulders. 'It's dangerous stuff you know, Hemlock. Really, Miss Cackle – perhaps you ought to brush up on your Shakespeare! Come along, Eva. I think we ought to get out of Miss Cackle's hair whilst she rouses the rest of the school and they attempt to save their damsel in distress.'

Amelia's mind was in disarray as she watched Eva get to her feet, walking silently behind Broomhead out of the room, leaving the two powerless elderly witches alone with their dying potions mistress.

x

Mildred sat on her pillow, hugging her thighs to her chest.

She had waited. And now it was happening.

The sounds of rousing students. Doors opening and closing. Confused words.

The tears gushed down her cheeks and she stifled her gasps between her cotton-clad knees.

Someone, somewhere, was screaming, their exclamations obscured by the commotion that was filling the corridors.

More screams followed. Doors slammed. Girls cried.

x

'_Shut the door!_' Griselda shrieked to Fenella, who stood petrified in the staffroom doorway.

'Oh my God!' Fenella clapped a hand over her mouth and retched.

'_Shut the fucking door!' Griselda screamed again, 'Do NOT let them see this!_'

Nothing could have prepared the young witch for the scene before her.

Miss Bat was sitting in an inconsolable heap beneath the leaded window, groaning like a widow.

Miss Cackle clasped Miss Hardbroom's lifeless hand between both of her own, her head resting against them as she rocked, drenching them with tears.

An empty wineglass lay on its side amongst other discarded glasses.

Griselda didn't remember walking over to Miss Cackle's side. She didn't know why she, herself, wasn't crying. All she knew was that her chest was heaving, the room felt close, and the sounds of intermingled sobs on both sides of the staffroom door became incessant white noise. Somewhere amidst the chaos, Fenella had seated herself beside Miss Bat on the floor, encircling a hand around the chanting mistress's wiry hair and pulling her close.

Griselda thought she must have been staring at Miss Hardbroom for hours, at the face she knew so well, now drained of colour and life. Her cheek was pressed to the table and her eyes were still open. A trickle of blood escaped the corner of her parted lips. Griselda knew then that she'd never forget the expression frozen on her teacher's face – like the witch had been paralysed the moment she'd set her gaze on some terrifying sight. Lowering herself to kneel between Miss Cackle and Miss Hardbroom, Griselda reached up and closed Miss Hardbroom's eyes, shivering slightly as she came into contact with the cooling flesh. She looked at Miss Cackle, who barely seemed to have noticed her.

'Miss Cackle,' she whispered, reaching out with a trembling hand to the headmistress's shoulder. 'Miss Cackle, you need to let her go now.'

Miss Cackle howled, shaking her head into the hands that were soaking with unceasing tears. Fenella cried in silence, refusing to look at Miss Hardbroom whilst Miss Bat whined into her shoulder. Without realising it, Griselda rose to her feet.

'I'm... going to go and get someone,' she said, quietly. 'Miss Drill, I think... I think I'll go and get Miss Drill.'

No one seemed to hear her.

x

Imogen hadn't meant to fall asleep. And as the thumping of a fist on the door woke her suddenly, she wondered how on earth her fatigue had gotten the better of her apprehension.

'MISS,' the pounding came quicker, the voice frantic. '_MISS!_ You have to come _now!_ It's Miss Hardbroom.'

Imogen sprinted to the door, punching her arms through the sleeves of her dressing gown.

From that day on, she would always remember the haunted face of Griselda Blackwood that confronted her.

'It's Miss Hardbroom,' she said again, gesturing helplessly as her tears finally began to fall. 'She's dead!'

x

_*Skips away, leaving carnage in wake* _

_All I'll say is this… _

_It ain't over till the fat lady sings... _

_(Oh come on, cheer up, you lot! Chapter 10 is on its way!)_


	10. Chapter 10

_Dear Reader (if you're still there)_

_This is the shortest chapter yet; but I had asked HB to let people know via Facebook that an update was promised this weekend – therefore I'm sure you can imagine how much trouble I'd have been in if I'd reneged on that. _

_I will try and have the next chapter up in the next couple of days – so please bear with me! _

10

Imogen had never run down stairs three at a time. Certainly never the cold, stone steps of Castle Overblow.

But tonight, as she swung between stair and banister, pelting along corridors and hollering at girls to get out of her way, she didn't care how she got to her destination – just that she got there fast.

She flung the staffroom door open and wailed madly at the grim scene that assaulted her vision, throwing herself down beside Constance's lifeless form and barely giving the tears time to come before she was on her feet again, her chest labouring as she flew past the bemused faces to the front door, yanking it open and hurtling out into the yard to see Mistresses Broomhead and DeSilva about to take flight.

'_You BITCH!_' she screamed, gaining on the two witches. '_You FUCKING BITCH!_ _What have you done to her?_' Hot tears cascaded down her cheeks, her blood boiling with the nonchalance that seemed to emanate from Broomhead. Eva averted her eyes and Broomhead smirked as the gym mistress closed in.

'Well well, if it isn't the little netball teacher! Constance's only friend in the world. How apt!'

Imogen swung her clenched fist at Broomhead's face, her knuckles thudding hard against the angular cheekbone and the witch was thrown to the ground. Girls had congregated in the yard, gasping and murmuring. Imogen ignored the alarmed throbbing of her hand and was about to bring the woman lying before her to within an inch of her life when Broomhead's palm rose up and bolt of electric blue shot out of it, striking Imogen in the chest and hurling her across the yard, barely missing castle wall as she landed with a bone-shattering thud.

'Leave her to me.' She heard Mistress DeSilva say. 'Get back to the college. I'll deal with her.'

Imogen lay groaning on her back as the silhouette of Eva loomed into view against the darkened sky. She was powerless to retaliate a further attack, her neck jarred from the impact of her landing. She groaned as her fingers traced the air for something to hold onto, suddenly aware that Eva had knelt down beside her and was helping her into a sitting position, glancing back to Walker's Gate and the spot from where Mistress Broomhead had vanished.

'Get away from me,' Imogen growled.

'Are you hurt?'

'What do you care? Get OFF me!' She tried to struggle, but the witch seized her firmly in her arms and Imogen gave in to heaving sobs, her face contorted with grief.

'_Why_, after all these years?' she wailed. 'Why couldn't she have left her alone?'

Eva didn't answer. Instead she turned her head to the sky and muttered words that Imogen could barely hear: fraught, muffled sounds that had about them a Latinate rhythm. Ordinarily, Imogen would have tried to apply linguistic logic to them, deciphering their meaning at least to a limited extent by the way, with a little common-sense, they translated into modern language. But now they only served to remind her of Constance, and her body shuddered as the muted sobs grasped at her aching throat.

'Listen to me, Imogen –'

Amidst her maddened grief, the gym mistress summoned up all her strength and pushed the young woman off her, staggering feebly to her feet.

'Why should I listen to you?' she snarled, 'You're a _traitor!_' she lunged at Eva, pushing her hard in the chest and the young witch stumbled back without even attempting to defend herself. Imogen did the same thing several times more as she spoke. 'She trusted you! She told _me_ to trust you! And look - what - you've - _done!_'

'Imogen, please,'

'_Don't fucking "Imogen" me!_'

The girls looked on, some crying into each other's shoulders, others observing their gym mistress's unpredictable behaviour with caution. Not knowing what to do with herself, Imogen made to head into the building and the girls soon dispersed, lest they should be the next to incur her wrath. She felt a hand on her arm and heard Eva's voice again begging her to listen...

'I told you to GET OFF ME!' Imogen spun round ready to attack, but this time it was Eva's hand who slapped _her_, hard across the face, causing her cheek to burn and stunning her into silence.

'And I told you to _listen_,' Eva hissed, finally at the end of her tether. She moved closer to speak so that the girls could not hear her. '_How long is it going to take me to get through to you?_'

At that moment, Miss Cackle, Miss Bat, Griselda and Fenella spilled out into the yard. They came to a universal abrupt halt, eyeing the scene before them as if to evaluate the danger their gym mistress was in.

It was Miss Cackle who spoke first, her face grave.

'Constance's body – it's gone...'

After a moment of confusion, a strange flurry that seemed to consist of a combination of hope intermingled with anguish, every pair of eyes set on Mistress DeSilva.

'What were you saying just now?' Imogen's voice trembled as she spoke, a fearful revelation forming in her mind. 'You said something – like a spell, when I was still sitting on the ground. What _was_ it?'

Mistress DeSilva seemed to steel herself to address her hostile audience.

'It's time you knew the truth,' she said, through a choked whisper. 'And for that, I'm going to need to borrow Mildred Hubble.'


	11. Chapter 11

11

To Mildred, it must have felt like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. She had just been summoned to the staffroom by Miss Bat who, Eva understood, was ordinarily quite a scatty, grand-motherly type of witch; and whilst she displayed all the characteristics of a being sandwich short of a picnic, Eva knew that there would be something comforting in her eccentricity. Miss Bat was the one the girls could go to with their trivial woes, safe in the knowledge that, whilst she might not offer the most objective perspective, she would never fail to make them feel better.

This evening, however, as the chanting teacher rapped on Mildred's bedroom door, Eva standing behind her so that she might offer Mildred the most reassuring smile she could given the circumstances, Davina had spoken in a cool, detached manner which had visibly unsettled her pupil. She had asked Mildred if she could "borrow" her, mirroring Eva's own use of the word out in the yard, as if the informality might serve to quell some of the young witch's anxiety. It wouldn't, Eva knew now, as she linked an arm through Mildred's and steered her gently out into the corridor. As they followed Davina's sparrow-like form, already quick-stepping towards the staffroom, Eva explained how she had already briefed the rest of the staff on the situation. They just needed to hear it from her – from Mildred.

Eva knew too well that feeling of going to face your fate, of wondering if life was ever going to be the same again. She knew the dreadful burden of having authorities against you. But she also knew that, had things not gone according to plan – something that would be unclear for a considerable time yet – it would be _her_ head for the chop. This young girl who had acted as catalyst in proceedings was not her scapegoat. The transition from the relative innocence of youth to the undeniable responsibility of adulthood had seemed to come out of nowhere for Eva. She was nearly thirty; but she still felt the same vulnerabilities as an eighteen-year-old. She considered herself young, but, she realised with a qualm as they mounted the curved steps outside the staffroom, she was no longer so young as to be able to retreat into the sanctuary of blamelessness.

They filed into the room, already occupied by Amelia, Imogen, Fenella and Griselda. Eva winced inwardly as she caught sight of the dried blood on the tabletop, the same drop that had leaked from Constance's lips. It was black against the grain of the old wood, and it seemed remarkable to Eva that a newcomer to the room would have little idea that it was blood at all. An enviable position indeed...

'It's true,' Mildred faltered, pre-empting any questioning once she and Eva had taken their seats. Miss Cackle was looking sombre as Miss Bat bustled with spoons and china in the corner, eventually placing a steaming mug in front of each of them. Eva glanced at Mildred, nodding gently in encouragement as Miss Bat finally perched on the armchair by the fireplace. 'If Mistress DeSilva told you that Miss Hardbroom drank Bellatoxica to fake her own death, then yes, it's true.'

A loaded silence descended on the room as every witch present endured the news. Miss Bat's gaze traced the middle distance. Fenella and Griselda avoided eye contact with anyone as if they, for once, felt out of their depth. Amelia buried her nose into her open palms, her weary eyes closing for a brief moment. Whether the reaction was one of relief or despair, Eva couldn't tell.

'What _is_ Bellatoxica?'

Imogen, the only layperson in the room, desperately voiced the question that Eva knew would not have to be addressed had there not been a non-witch present. Judging by the ashen glances Miss Bat and Miss Cackle were exchanging, neither of them wanted to be the one to detail the potion's rather sinister connotations, and likewise she detected no offer of disclosure in the faces of the two older students, both of whom were steeling themselves in anticipation of Mildred's response.

'It's a potion that brings about a deathlike state for twenty-four hours after consumption.' Eva explained, briskly. 'Mistress Broomhead planned to poison Miss Hardbroom with Conium Maculatum – or pure hemlock, as it's commonly known. Bellatoxica has the same symptoms as hemlock, without the more... _permanent..._ side effect. So Mistress Broomhead has been fooled into thinking that Miss Hardbroom has died. The only thing is –'

'_What_?' snapped Imogen.

Eva bit the inside of her cheek. It was always more complicated when a non-witch was involved in their world, and she couldn't deny the resentment she felt at having to explain something that she knew a non-magician would simply not comprehend. She had to admit it: she was (regrettably rather like Mistress Broomhead) a major objector to fraternisation between the two worlds. It was bad enough talking to a neophyte about the basics: the old adage of mysterious women who kept black cats and travelled by broomstick to their bubbling cauldrons in some underground coven was somewhat of a fairytale, the mere tip of the iceberg into the magical world. To witches of the modern day, witches like Eva, Constance, the generations of young witches who had and would hone their powers at Cackle's Academy, such trivialisation of their culture was an insult. To even _begin_ to explain the finer details of their universe to those who were incapable of understanding was not something Eva felt well-placed to do.

She shook the cobwebs of thought inwardly. Now was not the time to go off on an internalised tangent. She had to be fair to Imogen, however naive and difficult this woman was proving to be. She had taken a job at a witch academy, she had clearly fallen under the (albeit unintentional) spell of its deputy headmistress, and she had lost her. Eva observed the blonde across the table, her grief manifesting itself in barely suppressed anger that threatened to bubble over at and second. She should feel pity. But ultimately it came down to one hard fact: mere mortals didn't understand that magic, like love and hate, was an emotion. It was an insurmountable barrier between two entirely different beings. To a witch, a non-magical entity had something pivotal missing; a part of their soul that was not made up for elsewhere. A gaping hole that could not be artificially filled. Like faith, power, heritage – and then some – all rolled into one. In short, for Imogen to love Constance was a complete waste of emotional energy.

'Because of the nature of the deathlike state, there's no way of knowing whether the potion worked until the twenty-four hours are up. It's not like you can check a pulse or catch an eyelid fluttering. As far as the outside world is concerned, Constance is dead. And none of us will know for certain that she isn't until –'

'But you said –'

'Yes, I _know_,' Eva cut in irritably over Imogen's interjection. 'It is only a deathlike _state_. But if there was some sort of mistake in the brewing process, it could still have... well, it could have -'

'Killed her.' Amelia finished.

Imogen retched.

'Precisely.' Eva took a deep, trembling breath. 'And that's what we won't know until the twenty-four hours are up.'

'And_ did_ you make any mistakes?' Imogen glared at Mildred, daring her to utter anything but a resolute denial.

'I did everything according to the instructions.' Mildred croaked, her voice small.

'_Oh!' _Imogen threw her hands to the heavens, smiling sardonically. 'And you're renowned for getting everything _right_, aren't you?'

'All right, Imogen,' Amelia raised a hand.

'No, Miss Cackle, it is _not_ all right,' Imogen got to her feet, her palms flat on the table as she prepared to release her tirade on Mildred. 'If you've made a hash of this, like you do everything else, do you realise what you are?'

'_Stop it_, Imogen!'

'A murderer!' The gym mistress's face contorted into tears as soon as she'd uttered the word, and Mildred simultaneously began to cry, the depth of the statement shocking her to her core. Eva pulled Mildred's face into her shoulder, cupping a hand over her ear so that she might not hear the heated exchange that followed between herself and Imogen, during which Imogen reiterated her distrust of Eva to the headmistress several times, forcing Eva to resort to the cheap-shot of questioning a non-witch's presence in the school.

'That's _enough!_' Amelia's voice was gruff with rage. Eva knew she'd pushed her too far. 'If you cannot control yourselves, get out of my staffroom! Imogen - can't you see the poor girl's a mess? It was _Constance_ who involved her in this – _Constance_ who put her in this terrible position!'

Imogen sank back into her seat, and Davina appeared beside her, hushing her sobs as though comforting a baby and pulling a frilly handkerchief from her cuff, proceeding to mop the gym mistress's face.

It was Griselda who finally broke the ice.

'Why did _Mildred _have to the make the potion?'

'Constance could hardly have mixed a lethal potion during school hours,' Eva explained, relieved to address someone more empathetic. 'She'd have lost her job for certain if Broomhead had caught her. We needed someone who wouldn't arouse suspicion if Broomhead noticed them in the potion lab after dark. And Mildred here,' she paused, stroking the young girl's head as it rested against her, 'Acknowledged by Mistress Broomhead as the _"worst witch in the entire school"_, would be the last one she'd suspect of such an intricate feat. Trust me – I know Broomhead. Mildred would be of little interest to her as a student. Someone like your Ethel Hallow, on the other hand – someone more liable to be corrupted into Broomhead's wicked ways, would have been far more suspicious. If Broomhead had found your most academic pupil brewing such a complicated potion, she'd have sussed the plan instantly and killed Constance in a second. And, of course,' she paused, waiting until every pair of eyes in the room had met hers in anticipation of her conclusion. 'Mildred here was the one who, above all others, Constance trusted.'

There was a moment of realisation, as heads nodded gently in recognition of what Mildred had done for them – for their potions mistress – from everyone except Imogen who was still shedding silent tears, present in body but not in mind.

'Mildred, dear,' Miss Cackle spoke, softly, coaxing the young girl away from the sanctuary of Eva's shoulder. 'What does Miss Hardbroom want us to do now?'

'I've transported her body to a secret location,' Eva answered for her, looking to Imogen who was roused from her thoughts as she realised the words were directed at her. 'That was the spell I was casting when we were in the yard. She's safe. But I must go and keep watch over her.'

'And when she wakes,' Davina whispered, hopefully, 'Will you bring her home to us?'

'Not immediately, no.'

'What do you mean?' Amelia's eyes were tainted with suspicion.

'There's another possible side effect of Bellatoxica.' Eva sighed and closed her eyes in a silent plea for strength. 'When Miss Hardbroom wakes, she will seem absolutely normal. Wide awake, perfectly mobile, in control of her senses. The danger is that until the Bellatoxica is out of her system, she will need to be kept under observation when she sleeps – just for a couple of days.' Eva regarded the expectant faces before continuing. 'It's a strong potion,' she shrugged. 'She may slip away in her sleep if we're not careful.'

'Oh, well I'm glad you're so blasé about it!' Imogen blurted.

'Please, Miss Cackle,' Eva determinedly ignored her. 'I would rather not waste any more time. May I have your permission to go to Miss Hardbroom?'

'I'm coming with you.' declared Imogen, wiping the last of her tears.

'No,' said Amelia.

'I'm not arguing, Miss Cackle. I'm going with her. End of.'

Eva released an exasperated breath.

'Me too, Miss. Please.' Mildred said, at last raising her head from Eva's shoulder. Her eyes were red and watery, the skin around them swollen.

'Mildred, my dear, I don't think it would be wise to –'

'Miss, _please_,' Mildred sat bolt upright, reaching out to clasp the headmistress's hand across the table. 'I _have_ to see her. I can't wait a moment longer than necessary to make sure she wakes up.'

Amelia looked into the pleading eyes of her student, taking a moment to consider her words. Her gaze met with Davina, who gave an uncertain nod.

'Right – then we'll go too,' Fenella announced, glancing over to Griselda who was already rising to her feet. 'If for no other reason then to keep an eye on Mildred.' She looked from Eva to Imogen. 'And to keep these two from each other's throats.'

x

_Thanks for reading... The quicker you review, the quicker we can catch up with Constance! Ha ha! :-D_


	12. Chapter 12

_Many, many many apologies for holding this back for so long – I've hated writing this chapter!_

_The next is already underway and I promise to have it with you very soon... I know, my promises are worth nothing... _

_In the meantime can I say thank you to all readers, especially those who take the time to review – with an extra special thanks to "__**Newbie**__" for a lovely message which I am unable to reply to, as it was not "signed". You gave me the motivation I needed to update!_

12

Eva had navigated the unlikely fivesome to the centre of London, where Imogen, Fenella, Griselda and Mildred now lingered on a wide, grubby pavement by a set of glass doors outside Paddington Station. Having asked them to wait, Eva had disappeared into the building, whilst Fenella kept a close eye on her through a window to ensure she did not disappear out of sight. Though they had enough evidence to suggest that Eva wasn't as loyal to Mistress Broomhead as they had feared, none of them was naive enough to trust that she wasn't luring them into a trap.

Griselda observed the city scene, red busses hurtling by, hissing loudly as they upped a gear. The non-stop traffic of suited commuters carrying briefcases like a thousand Mr Hallows continually bustled past, and office workers on cigarette breaks loitered outside glass-fronted foyers. No one seemed to notice the party's unusual attire - not even the broomsticks. _Well_, thought Griselda – _it _is_ London_. _People dress however they like here and get away with it_. At that moment she was sure she heard someone mutter words to the effect of "...bit early for Halloween...", and when she'd glanced around, a group of teenagers whose dress immediately announced a penchant for Marilyn Manson skulked by, sneaking furtive glances at the group and snickering into each other's ears. Griselda rolled her eyes, turning her attention to Miss Drill, who had kept a deliberate distance from the group and was standing with her hands in her pockets and her back to the station.

'Are you OK, Miss Drill?' she offered, cautiously. Miss Drill glanced briefly at her, although Griselda had made a point of not creeping up.

'Fine, thank you, Griselda.'

The young witch didn't want to press further – but a thought flickered through her mind; the notion that Miss Hardbroom and Miss Drill were a little more similar than either would be likely to admit: put them under pressure, and they both closed up like unyielding clams.

After the signal from Fenella, the group made their way into the building, past the orange-lit departures board, weaving their way in and out of static commuters squinting for their destination. Hastening to keep up, Griselda was the last one through the ticket barriers (with the use of a fluorescent piece of card thrust into her hand by Eva), down steps and along a network of tunnels which eventually landed them on the Hammersmith & City line. Gathering the broomsticks in one arm, Eva propped herself against a cushion-covered ledge by the sliding doors, deep in thought as the others look their seats. A mechanical female voice barked out the destination of their train, and with a high-pitched chirrup the doors slid impatiently shut. Within seconds the train had picked up an impressive speed, every passenger swaying gently as it rattled along the tunnel. Griselda smiled whenever a commuter happened to catch her gaze, noticing how they looked immediately away, only to glance back seconds later to see if she was still looking.

'Not the friendliest place, is it?' she whispered to Fenella, who was flicking through a copy of yesterday's _London Evening Standard_ she'd found on the seat beside her.

'What - The Big Smoke? Nah,' Fenella paused to scrutinise a double-page spread promoting Lily Allen's latest album. 'My Mum always says you should live here once, but leave before it hardens your soul.'

Griselda was silent as the train came to a juddering halt at Baker Street and there was an exchange of commuters.

"_PLEASE MIND THE GAP BETWEEN THE TRAIN AND THE PLATFORM_."

'Do you think HB lives in London?'

'No idea,' replied Fenella, now glancing down the Horoscopes. 'What are you – Gemini? _"An act of heroism is required of you this month,"' _read Fenella, in a mystical voice._ '"A younger friend may have murdered someone you know, and an older acquaintance will ask you to keep her girlfriend from tearing strips off a school inspector"_'.

'Does it really say that?'

Fenella rolled her eyes and folded the paper, frisbeeing it over to Mildred who unravelled it with vague interest.

'Course it doesn't, stupid.' She lowered her voice to an almost undetectable whisper. 'Did you notice, though – in the staffroom?'

'Er – could anyone have _failed_ to notice?' Griselda reflected her friend's hushed tones. 'I always thought those two hated each other.' Their eyes trailed to Miss Drill, who was still looking a little shaken from her first broomstick journey flying pillion with Fenella. 'Never thought for a moment they were hiding something.'

"_THIS TRAIN TERMINATES AT_ _BARKING._"

'Who's to say they are?' said Fenella, taking hold of the handrail as the carriages clattered round a particularly sharp bend. 'I mean – Miss Drill's still seeing Serge, isn't she?'

Griselda shrugged. It seemed a little fanciful to think their gym mistress had a crush on Miss Hardbroom. Not only was it the sort of thing that happened only in rather far-fetched BBC Three dramas, but she'd never thought for a moment that their PE teacher played up to the age-old stereotype of a lesbian. There had been that time a couple of years ago, when Miss Drill's former Head of Department at her previous school had brought the "Heversham Heavies" for a "friendly" basketball match. Miss Pyke – now _she_ was the epitomical Sapphic PE instructress that folklore spoke of: butch, masculine, masculine; and perhaps, one could say, of indeterminate gender. But the only thing remotely unfeminine about Miss Drill was her crop of blonde hair; and even that seemed to be growing out lately. No: Griselda felt certain that Miss Hardbroom, as determinedly chaste as she seemed to be, would never intentionally have given off come-hither vibes to another member of staff - or anyone, for that matter.

As the train drew to another halt, Eva jerked her head and stepped towards the door, the rest of them following suit. Shouldering their way through the dusty labyrinth of the Underground, they hopped onto an escalator that seemed to go on forever and eventually made through the next set of barriers and back out into glaring daylight. Police were highlighted in their garish yellow jackets, amongst people killing time outside the station, waiting for only they-knew-what. The continual noise of the City rent the air - the screeching of brakes, the honking of horns, the distant toll of clock-tower bells. A dated sign across the road that read _KINGS CROSS ST PANCRAS_ announced their location, towards which Mistress DeSilva was marching with all the authority of one who'd made the journey a thousand times. Stopping briefly in the doorway, she turned, fumbled in her handbag, and presented them all with what looked at a first glance to be a folded leaflet.

'_Eurostar_?' Mildred read aloud.

'Why can't we fly?' asked Fenella.

'Because,' said Eva, marching briskly towards the flat escalator, 'It is not advisable for witches to fly overseas. Magical energy is in short supply once off-shore, and whilst the English Channel is manageable for an experienced witch, apprentices are not advised to attempt it.'

'So where are we going?' Griselda puffed, picking up her pace to keep up with Eva.

'Home.'

'Where's home?'

Eva threw a brief smile in Griselda's direction.

'Paris, of course.'

x

To Milderd Hubble, a train journey was a rare treat. Something to be relished. On any ordinary day, she'd have loved every second of her time on the Eurostar. But this was no ordinary day. This was the day she would find out whether or not she'd been responsible for the death of her form mistress.

As they each took their seats in the spacious cabin of the train, Mildred noticed Fenella and Griselda sigh contentedly, examining their surroundings and clearly making the most of a day-trip during term time. Eva sat next to the window and dug out a book from her bag which she settled immediately into reading, having barely spoken a word for the duration of the trip. Miss Drill was sitting on the opposite side, slouched into her seat with her blue fleece zipped up to her neck, burying her chin inside the collar as if it provided protection. Her eyes remained on the window that would soon offer no scenery but the blackness of a tunnel. Mildred, under her cloud of relentless misery, remained with her heart heavy in her chest, her face furred into gloom as she wished the hours away until they arrived at their destination, and Miss Hardbroom.

x

'It'll be all right,' Eva looked up from her book only when the refreshments trolley rattled along the aisle. Mildred was stirred from her thoughts, and glanced around expecting Eva to be addressing someone else.

'It'll be all right, Mildred,' Eva spoke again, reaching forward and placing a hand on the girl's knee. 'I'm sure she'll be fine. She trusts you.'

Mildred offered a weak smile, biting back the creeping feeling that told her Miss Hardbroom's trust had been misplaced. As the trolley came to a stop by them, the middle aged waitress's eyes creased into warm crescents as she smiled and listed the on-board offerings. Mildred's stomach was hollow, but she had no appetite. Fenella and Griselda grabbed a croissant and a baguette each, whilst Eva settled for a couple of apples, one of which she offered to Mildred. Shaking her head, Mildred's eyes trailed to Miss Drill, who remained taciturn with her head resting against the window. Mildred considered stepping over to the other side to talk to her, so inherent was it in her nature to comfort those in despair; but something in the back of her mind stopped her. However well-meant, it wouldn't have been appropriate. Sighing, Mildred looked again to Eva, noticing with a surge of anxiety that her eyes were frozen on a page of her book, clearly not taking in the text as she chewed her apple.

x

Two hours and twenty minutes seemed like an awfully long time when there was little to do but peruse a magazine of vastly overpriced perfumes, alcohol and gifts. To say Mildred's heart lifted for the first time that day as the train pulled into Paris's Gare du Nord station was an understatement. Eva had finally stowed her book away, her face betraying the relief she felt at being back in her home city, as if she'd been lifted out of some dark dream only to wake and realise it had all just been a nightmare. Swinging her bag over her shoulder, Eva stepped over to the other side of the train to rouse Imogen from her sleep. Fenella and Griselda had beamed at Mildred, barely able to contain their excitement at being in such an iconic city for the first time.

'I don't know what you're looking so pleased about,' muttered Mildred, reaching up to the overhead luggage shelf and passing the broomsticks down one by one. 'It's not like we're here to see Eurodisney.'

'No, you certainly are not,' said Eva, overhearing them. 'But you'll see some of the sights once we're up on the skies. Imogen – are you ready for this, or would you prefer it if I purchased you a Metro ticket?'

Imogen got to her feet, rotating her shoulders and looking a little better for her sleep, although her eyes still deliberately avoided Mildred's gaze.

'I'd prefer to fly with you, Mistress DeSilva. Fenella's proved herself to be a bit of a speed demon, and wherever it is you've stowed Miss Hardbroom, I'm sure getting there will seem a little less like taking my life into my own hands with a more experienced pilot.'

x

Outside the station, Eva led them round to an area off-street, where a light breeze skittered litter across the ground and graffiti adorned the walls. On their way out of the station, Mildred hadn't helped but notice how much less attention their broomsticks has roused from the locals, and Eva seemed to read her thoughts.

'The French are a lot more open to magic than you Brits,' she said, smiling knowingly. 'And in Paris even more so. Still – we don't want to unsettle them with acts of magical abandon.' Here, she paused, suspending her broomstick before her and commanding it to hover. The others followed, arranging themselves side-saddle and taking off into the skies behind their makeshift leader.

The view was like no other the girls had ever seen – so different was it to the English countryside, the unmistakable puzzle of London. There were wide, green open spaces, avenues adorned with perfectly spaced young trees, and architecture unlike any in England. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower tapered towards the sky, seeming smaller than Mildred had imagined yet vast against the landscape beneath, and glancing over her shoulder she spotted L'Arc de Triumphe as they followed the route of the Seine.

'Blimey,' said Fenella's raised voice into the rushing wind. 'Wherever it is she's taking us, it's near the Tower!'

'Awesome!' grinned Griselda, 'Bet you've not got the guts to go to the top.'

'Bet _you've_ not got the guts to get to the first floor – by _lift!_' Despite herself, Mildred smiled as the girls continued their usual banter. Veering off course, Mildred kept her eyes on Eva as the witch eventually steered her broom to a gradual descent, Miss Drill with her arms wrapped about her waist. Fenella and Griselda were now playing "It", chasing each other through the skies to raucous whoops and laughter. As Eva's broom slowed, Mildred scanned the rooftops below, peering at the bustling streets lined with cafes where well-dressed French women drank coffee, and men smoked at the tables outside. They were indeed nearing the tower, which loomed before them in all its romantic irony.

Eva landed gracefully in a side street, and the others followed. A sign above their heads announced _Rue de Buenos Ayres_. As Fenella and Griselda joined them, Eva had already fumbled inside her handbag and produced a key which she was now rattling inside the lock of a black-painted door next to La Castel Cafe. She held it open as the rest of them stepped inside.

The hallway was cool, dark – the windows obscured by slatted shutters which, by the sticky noise they made when Eva forced them open, might have been closed for years. The uncarpeted stairs creaked loudly as they mounted, following Eva's lead as they meandered off to the right. She ignored the first door, from behind which a French soap opera blared. The door on the second floor was ajar, and Mildred made out enough to see a woman ironing whilst chatting animatedly to someone who made occasional noises of agreement. Eva paid them no heed, instead mounting the stairs further until the reached the door on the top floor. There was nothing particular about the door – it was no different to the others apart from the fact that no sound emanated from behind it. Mildred's stomach plummeted, and she felt Fenella's arm link through hers, squeezing it against her side as Eva found a second key and turned the lock. Mildred glanced to Miss Drill, whose eyes were unblinking in wary expectation. Even Eva seemed to be trembling. Twenty four-hours had not yet passed, and they knew that the sight of their form mistress that awaited them would be a lifeless one...

Stepping into the apartment, Eva closed the door behind them, locking it. They all waited for a moment, listening to the silence inside and the traffic out. They were in a small living room. There was a sofa covered with a cream, canvas throw as if the room were waiting decoration, and an Andy Warhol rendition of Marilyn Monroe was suspended over an ornamental fireplace. A small television sat idly on an aged mahogany cabinet, and the window – where Eva was again opening the shutters – reached to the floor, with a small balcony outside. Tiny flowers bloomed inside their boxes around the edge, as though they had been recently looked after. Mildred didn't dare to hope...

'Where is she?' Griselda blurted, against her better judgement.

Eva merely raised a finger to her lips, turning towards a door which was slightly open. 'Wait here,' she whispered, slipping out of her court shoes and padding silently over to the door. Pushing it open gently, the girls could see that despite having her back to them, she had raised hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp.

'_Where is she_?' demanded Imogen, racing over and pushing the door so that it bounced against the wall. Mildred felt the hot tears already forming in her eyes.

'She should be –' Eva faltered, shaking her head in disbelief. 'She should be – _here_.'

Mildred rushed over and stood on tiptoe to peer over their shoulders into the room.

Inside was a bed dressed in the highest quality cotton sheets. The shutters were open, and the late afternoon sun cast a bronze glow through the window.

But Miss Hardbroom was nowhere to be seen.

x

_**Gang**_

_**I've never been on the Eurostar, so sorry for any discrepancies. I do hope, given the amount they charge, that they offer something better than a flapjack and a croissant, but I somehow couldn't imagine Fenny and Gris supping caviar. Haha!**_

_**And finally, it has been circa. thirteen years since I last went to Paris so the locations etc are courtesy of Google Maps/Streetview. **_


	13. Chapter 13

Here you go – there's still quite a way to go yet and some more drama to come. In case you've forgotten (seeing as it took me so long to upload the last chapter) the potion needs a couple of days to come out of Constance's system, hence why she needs to be observed whilst she sleeps. Thanks to Fantasy77 for the summary advice… wish I'd done it last time, really! Hopefully the rest will make sense…

PS – the "staff dinner" mentioned here is something that happened in "Hidden Depths".

**13**

'So where is she?'

The question echoed around the apartment, although none of them was really sure who had spoken. Eva gaped into the bedroom, her lips moving in helpless disbelief. Mildred, throwing a look over her shoulder for any other doors that might conceal their missing form mistress, darted over to one which revealed a small kitchen. She peered around in the hope of seeing the familiar shadowy figure jetting water into the kettle, or drying the dishes – but all that greeted her was an upturned mound of plates on the draining board and the soft buzz of the refrigerator.

Alerted to a gasp from one of her companions, Mildred spun back into the room and froze.

Someone was fiddling with the lock of the front door.

Stepping quickly towards the door, Eva coaxed her own key noiselessly from the inside of the lock where she had left it. She signaled for the girls to back up to the wall behind her, and in a second the door had flown open and Eva had collided backwards into Fenella in her efforts to avoid being flattened by it.

'Oh. I hadn't expected so many of you,' said Miss Hardbroom, eyeing the group as though she'd just walked into an extra-curricular positions class. Her hair was tied in a high ponytail, and she was wearing a long black skirt and a loose kaftan. Her robes were resting about her shoulders, and in her arms she clutched a brown paper bag which she wasted no time in shoving at Griselda. Brushing the invisible dust from the sleeves of her top, Constance surveyed them again. 'Well? What are you all gawping at? You look as though you've seen a ghost.'

Mildred, overcome with euphoria, almost knocked her form mistress back out onto the landing as she threw her arms about her waist. Miss Hardbroom muttered something half-hearted about conducting oneself with decorum, and amidst the general sounds of relief and high-fives that were being exchanged between Fenella and Griselda, Mildred heard Imogen give way to long-suppressed tears.

x

'Pan-oh-shock-o-lar,' Fenella read aloud, squinting at the pack of pastries she'd pulled out of Miss Hardbroom's shopping. 'Blimey – she's really gone to town, Gris – there's strawberry tarts in here and everything! Proper French goodies. And look – vino for the olds.' She glanced back into the living room, where the others were gathered around the sofa, catching up. 'We'll swipe us some of that later.'

Griselda paused from pouring steaming water into six mugs.

'I think HB deserves every last drop of that…' she said, her words coming to a wavering halt. Fenella, having plonked a pastry onto each plate and slipped the wine inside the fridge door, craned her neck to see Griselda's face, hidden as it was by a curtain of blonde hair.

'Hey – Gris, what's up?'

Griselda got to her full height, wiping her eyes and fanning them with her fingers as she released an embarrassed laugh.

'I know! I know – it's ridiculous. It's just –'

'What?' Fenella curled an arm around her friend's shoulders.

'I really thought she'd gone, Fen. I mean I _really_ thought… I know she can be a cow, but I never thought I'd see – _that_.' Griselda's eyes became clouded with haunted thoughts. 'I keep seeing her last night, and…'

Fenella bit the inside of her cheek.

'I know. I suppose I make up for the misery by larking about. It's the only way I know to be. But I keep seeing it, too.' She shook the recollections from her mind and grasped her friend by the shoulders, giving her a gentle shake. 'But she's _fine_, Gris. She's _here_ – look,' Fenella put a hand behind an ear, listening exaggeratedly to the conversation neat door, where Miss Hardbroom could be heard berating the change from Francs to Euros, and the general lechery of the few French males she had encountered thus far. Despite herself, Griselda let out a small laugh. Fenella grinned, pulling her friend into a tight hug.

'I know she's not out of it yet, but we'll see she's all right. Call it making up for all the grief we've given her over the years. Now come on – best get this tea out there. She'll flip her lid if we give it to her lukewarm!'

x

'But I don't understand,' Mildred's brow was furrowed. 'It's not been twenty four hours yet.'

Imogen had hardly taken her eyes off Constance since she'd entered the apartment. Against her better judgement – the same judgement that usually assured her that Constance Hardbroom knew exactly what she was doing at all times – she'd found herself scrutinising every aspect of the potions mistress's demeanour. Something wasn't right, and it unsettled Imogen more than a little. From her place on the floor with her knees drawn under her chin, Imogen peered through the steam of her tea: she'd noticed Constance's slightly paler shade, the occasional deep, steadying breaths, the trembling fingers that she had been concealing in her lap. Whenever Constance had caught her looking, she'd held Imogen's gaze until the gym mistress had been forced to look away, as if daring her to question her wellbeing. Constance had always said that confidence and control was the key to success; but this time, Imogen wasn't sure she really had either.

'The explanation is simple,' Constance distracted herself with Mildred's question. 'Whilst you mixed a perfectly adequate potion, Mildred, I am afraid you must have collected the lakewater several seconds before midnight, hence why the effects didn't last the entirety of the twenty-four hour period.'

Mildred blushed. 'I'm sorry, Miss Hardbroom.'

'Never mind,' Constance said, briskly. 'Better to be able-bodied than dead for longer than strictly necessary.' There was a glint of humour in her eyes, which Mildred didn't reciprocate. Imogen could see it in the student now – the regret that had Eva been unable to transport Constance out of the school in time, the whole plan could have backfired. Superfluous as her concerns were, Mildred too had suffered a tumultuous few hours; and for the first time Imogen bestowed a smile of encouragement on the girl when the troubled gaze met hers.

'Mildred, my dear…' For a moment, Constance's hand hovered over Mildred's as though she might take it in her own; but she hesitated, instead leaning to place her uneaten pastry on the table where Fenella and Griselda were now devouring theirs. 'You concocted a very complicated and dangerous potion last night, and you did it under a great deal of pressure. Do not think for a moment that I will ever forget what you did for me.'

A reverent silence hung in the air, broken eventually by Mistress DeSilva getting to her feet and sweeping a cool smile around the room.

'Excuse me,' she said, airily. 'I ought to change. You may all use whatever you need here during your stay, which will only be a couple of days. Fenella and Griselda – the sofa folds out into a bed, so the two of you can stay in here tonight. Miss Drill – there is a second bedroom just off the hall next to the bathroom, and Mildred can stay there too. Constance, you will remain in my room and I will be on night duty tonight.'

'Is that such a good idea?' Imogen piped up, as every pair of eyes turned to her. 'I mean – we've all had a long day but I at least managed to get some sleep on the train. I might be in a better position to watch Constance during the night.'

Eva seemed to mask irritation with a false smile. 'It would be better, Miss Drill, if Constance was under my care for the first night.'

Sensing the tension, Fenella and Griselda gathered the plates and cups and disappeared back into the kitchen to wash up. Once Eva had closed her bedroom door behind her, Mildred glanced between the two teachers, searching for something to distract her from the awkwardness. Pushing herself up from the sofa she stepped out onto the balcony, drawing the cream voile's behind her. Imogen watched them rippling in the breeze, listening to the clinking of crockery in soapy water. Aware that the rare silence hanging between Fenella and Griselda probably meant that they were listening, Imogen got to her feet and put a hand out to Constance, who regarded it with caution.

'Come on. Let's go for a walk.'

'Miss Drill, I –'

'I think you owe me that much at least, don't you?'

x

The sun was setting as the two of them strolled towards the Eiffel Tower - which, Imogen contemplated, was at closer quarters than most tourists could have wished to get. It seemed ironic, looming before them like some icon of romance, with groups of friends and families and happy couples congregating at the bottom. Plunging her fists into the pockets of her fleece, Imogen daren't even glance at the witch beside her, whose mind was so clearly preoccupied with the events of the past few days. She had never known Constance to walk any other way but briskly, but now she was gliding along in the evening sunshine as though she'd finally realized she had all the time in the world to rush, and today she was going to take things a little slower. Having barely spoken a word since they left the apartment, Imogen searched for something to say that didn't seem trivial.

'It moves with the wind, you know.' she mused.

'Sorry?'

'The Tower. They say when you're at the top, you can feel it sway.'

Constance seemed to contemplate this, a wry smile forming on her lips.

'Well, I don't suppose we can have it snapping off in a gale, can we? I doubt that would do much for the French tourist industry.'

They strolled on in companionable silence before Imogen, spotting a café, made a beeline for it.

'Come on,' she called, spinning round to address her colleague. 'I'm determined to look after you tonight. If I have an espresso now, I _definitely_ won't be able to sleep – and Mistress DeSilva will just have to lump it.'

Another smile flickered across Constance's lips as she followed her colleague, turning the collar of her cloak up against the wind.

x

'Errr…' Imogen hesitated, surprised to be confronted with a waitress who clearly had no command of English – or if she did she was plainly refusing to use it. 'I thought they all knew how to speak the lingo?' she hissed as Constance appeared beside her.

'Une table pour deux personnes, s'il vous plait,' Constance utilized her best no-nonsense tone, and the waitress nodded indicating a small round table in the window where Constance was now heading, leaving Imogen wide-eyed in her wake.

'You didn't tell me you could speak French!' she exclaimed, slipping off her jacket and draping it over the back of a chair.

'You didn't ask. Espresso, was it?'

x

Imogen had drank her coffee too quickly, scorching her throat in the process. She then ordered a glass of wine, which elicited a raised eyebrow from Constance.

'Aren't you going to have one?' asked the gym mistress, picking up a menu and glancing down it.

'It wouldn't be sensible. Not after…' Constance trailed off, seeming to tense at the mere thought of Bellatoxica. Her hand was resting on the table. Imogen slid the menu back between the salt and pepper shakers, considering whether or not to reach over and take the limp fingers in her own. _Reckless, inadvisable, and likely to provoke Constance's wrath_, the sold herself. Imogen's gaze lingered as she spoke.

'Do you want to talk about it?'

After a moment, Constance shook her head almost imperceptibly, apparently grateful for the distraction as the waitress sashayed over with the wine.

'I hope we're not going to have a repeat performance of the staff dinner,' Constance observed the large glass that was placed in front of her colleague. Imogen picked it up and swilled the wine around the inside, emitting a fruity aroma into the air.

'What – you mean me getting tipsy and you escorting me back to my room?'

'_Tipsy?_' Constance raised a mocking eyebrow. 'Is _that_ what you'd call it?'

'All right then,' said Imogen, feeling the colour rise to her cheeks. '"Drunk". And no, I won't put you through that again.'

Constance smiled, more to herself than her companion. She really was beautiful when… _oh, for God's sake, shut up, Imogen!,_ she scolded herself inwardly. _Stop being such a stupid, sentimental idiot_. _She's not like a normal person. She doesn't love. She doesn't want to _be_ loved_. _And she certainly has no place in her life for your affections.._.

She downed a large glug of wine and immediately felt the warmth in her bloodstream. Her eyes trailed to Constance again. The smile had faded, and the eyes were full of thoughts. Imogen drank her courage and reached across the table.

'Look –' she said firmly, pressing the cool flesh in her fingertips as Constance gazed blankly at the hand now enveloping hers. 'I don't know what you thought you were playing at last night, but you scared the living hell out of all of us. Don't you think you owe me an explanation?'

The hand whipped away instantly and the eyes flashed a warning.

'An explanation? An explanation, as to why, after twenty years, I decided the only way to rid my life of that execrable woman was to stage my own death? You say it like it was some throw-away decision, Miss Drill. As though it were something I'd do again tomorrow, to rid my life of the next irate parent, or troublesome student! Do you have _any_ idea what it felt like to drink that foul potion knowing that I might not come out of it alive? Do you _realize_ how it felt for someone like me, a self-confessed perfectionist who is not at peace unless she is in complete control, to put my life in the hands of a fifteen-year-old child? The worst witch in the entire school?'

Imogen sat in humbled silence, glancing towards the bar where the waitress polished glasses and observed the scene through furtive eyes. Offering her an uneasy half-smile, Imogen pulled her chair closer under the table and leant in to address Constance.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to undermine what you went through. But it frightened us, Constance, because we care for you. We thought you were… well, you know what we thought. Couldn't you have just told _someone?_ Didn't you feel you could speak to me - at least so I didn't have to go through that horror?'

Some of the potions mistress's steel had returned, but her eyes were glazed with tears.

'Absolutely not. Your reaction to the situation would have been entirely inauthentic. Broomhead would have read you like a book, and if she realised there was a plot and you were involved, she'd certainly have killed us all.'

'But Eva was in on it, wasn't she?' Imogen scathed. Constance didn't rise to the bait.

'Mistress DeSilva was once, like myself, Mistress Broomhead's protégé. She stayed at the College after her education there had ended for reasons I cannot go into now; but all will become clear when –'

'Is there something going on between the two of you?'

The moment the words had escaped her lips, Imogen knew she would hate herself forever. The eyes glinted wildly at her, and as Constance folded her arms in her ususal defence, Imogen seized one of them.

'Don't, Constance! Don't disapparate – I mean it!' She'd sounded a little more desperate than she'd intended to, and Constance fixed her with a look somewhere between disgust and astonishment. 'I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean that. I shouldn't have said it. Forgive me - please.'

Several moments passed during which Imogen sensed Constance mentally counting to ten. In the periphery of her vision, the waitress was whispering into the ear of a waiter who had just started his shift. Imogen could feel both of them watching the scene with barely veiled interest.

'I'm sorry, Constance,' she said again, relinquishing her grasp of Constance's arm and massaging her forehead. 'I'm sorry. It's been a long couple of days. I mean –'

'I _know_ what you mean,' Constance's tone wasn't quite ready to forgive. 'I think we ought to get back, don't you?'

x

_The next will follow asap. Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think…_


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